Embrace the Night
by Tilea
Summary: AU: After being disbarred, Phoenix goes missing. Not even Edgeworth can find a lead to his whereabouts, but months later, he at last discovers the true fate of his old friend, and it is something he could have never imagined. Unfortunately, by then, it is too late for him to escape. Rated for themes of rape.
1. Prolog

**Disclaimer: **Ace Attorney and its characters are owned by Capcom, not I.

**Warnings: **This story contains some violence, blood, sexual content, and rape themes.

**Embrace the Night - Prolog****  
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The jingling of steel links, the ticking of the clock, and the soft rustling of pages were the only sounds that perforated the oppressive silence that engulfed him during all hours of the day. The selection of books was impressive – he had to admit – but they were his only source of entertainment, other than pacing around his room, a length of chain always trailing behind, giving a harsh tug against his throat if he were to mistakenly wander just a half-step too far. The metal collar wasn't particularly heavy, but it was uncomfortable and he was so anxious about sleeping in it, lest he end up throttling himself.

Bearing all of that in mind, he still preferred the days to the nights. At night, _he_ woke, and _he_ was insatiable.

Miles Edgeworth glanced up from the thick leather-bound tome in his hands to the old clock on the wall opposite the old sofa upon which he was curled, drawing in his lower lip when he realized that the sun would be going down soon. He didn't have the luxury of windows to watch the light fade, but he could close his eyes and imagine what the sunset looked like from the vantage point of his twelfth-floor office at the prosecutors' building, a view he'd rarely taken the time to appreciate. If only he'd known… If only he'd not taken such things for granted…

Gray eyes drifted back down to the text, but he found that he could no longer focus, his stomach turning in knots at the knowledge of what would happen soon, who would walk through the door. He swallowed and took in a deep breath, marking his page and setting the book on the heavy wood and glass coffee table before him. He stayed in his leaning position, resting his forearms on his thighs and feeling his chain lightly sway against his left arm, as if to constantly remind him it was there. He was so tired, in more ways than one.

How long had he been here? Two weeks, perhaps? He had a way to mark the days, but being so imprisoned made time seem to blend together. He had no routine, no need for a routine. That in itself was maddening; he was a man who operated on schedules and plans, meticulously crafted to make the most of his available time, which until now, had been so very limited.

Miles stole a furtive glance at the door, his pulse quickening at the mere thought of it opening. At night, he was no longer alone. The metal collar and chain were removed, and he had someone who spoke to him, interacted with him, fed him and brought him water or wine or… whatever he requested, really. However, he hated the night. As miserable as he was confined here – chained, collared, and alone – he preferred it to what the night brought him. Pain, fear, humiliation… and all in the form of a man he'd once thought he could love.

No… Not a man… He wasn't a man anymore. He was… something else, something Miles had always believed to be a myth, scientifically impossible and therefore nonexistent. Yet, when those cold hands held his face *lovingly* or he saw those long, needle-sharp fangs extend, felt them pierce into his flesh, he knew it was no myth.

What had happened two weeks ago still seemed like an impossible nightmare that had not yet ended, but Miles was now certain this was one nightmare from which he would not simply wake in a cold sweat.


	2. Chapter 1

**Warnings: **This story contains light violence, blood, sexual content, and rape themes.

**Embrace the Night - Chapter 1**

The sound of his footsteps echoed through the stairwell as he descended the final flight – the twelfth – that would take him to the underground parking garage. He knew the lot would be empty, just as the massive building was. Few shared his dedication or work ethic, and few had as large a caseload as he constantly bore. It was nearly midnight, and Miles had not yet eaten dinner. Thus, while it was irritating that his stomach kept rumbling obnoxiously as he made his way out, he had only himself to blame.

As the tired prosecutor stepped off the final stair to the concrete floor of the parking area, he reached his right hand into his pocket to fish for his keys, able to see his bright red luxury sports car fifty yards away, lonely and waiting to take him home at last. Without needing to look at the labeled buttons on his keypad, he pressed the appropriate one to unlock the vehicle. His black dress shoes against the concrete echoed even louder in this vast, open structure with nothing to absorb the sound, but otherwise, it was silent.

He found himself walking at a steadily increasing pace across the open expanse before him. He was certain it was just paranoia brought on by stress and being so alone, at night, in such a place, but he was starting to get that creeping feeling again, the one he'd been getting a lot lately that told him he was being watched, followed. He would sometimes look around, but he never saw anyone or any sign of movement, so this time around he merely kept his gaze fixed on his car, tunneling his vision to ignore his irrelevant surroundings. There was a guard: no one unauthorized could park down here or even get in here. He was alone. No one was watching him. No one was following him.

Yet, with all of his self-assurance, he still felt an overwhelming sense of relief when he was sitting behind the wheel of his car with the doors all closed and locked. He sat there for a moment, working to control his breathing and calm his racing heart. He was being foolish… It was the stress and the worry… He had been investigating the disappearance for moths, and he was no closer to finding the man than he'd been upon returning from Europe to find him missing. It had him constantly on edge and his stomach in knots. The police had all but given up, ready to simply wait out the rest of the two-year period and then declare him dead.

Miles Edgeworth, however, was devoted to the truth. Until he had solid evidence one way or the other, he would draw no rash conclusions. There was no evidence that Wright was dead, so he would not accept such a declaration.

Miles cranked the ignition and shifted into gear to begin pulling out of the parking garage, merely flashing his badge at the woman sitting guard at the exit. Even this was wholly unnecessary, as the woman knew him and his car by sight. He was soon navigating the constantly-busy streets of Los Angeles, only paying just enough attention to his surroundings as was required to avoid any accidents. This drive was so familiar that he felt – if it weren't for the other vehicles and pedestrians – he could make it with his eyes closed.

As the strains of Wagner's symphonies covered the low hum of the engine, Miles allowed his mind to drift back to Phoenix Wright. Upon returning from Europe only months ago, he had learned that his old friend and courtroom rival had been disbarred. Needless to say, it had been quite a nasty shock, and after looking into the case himself, Miles was convinced there had been foul play far beyond that for which the Bar Association had stripped him of his badge. He knew Wright well enough to know he would not forge evidence or intentionally use forged evidence, but proving that would have to wait, as the man himself had gone missing almost immediately after the verdict of his hearing had been handed down. As far as anyone – including Miles himself – had found, there was not a single trace left behind that told what might have happened to him, if he had simply up and left it all behind, or if someone else was responsible.

Miles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Headaches were a common occurrence as of late; on some days, the dull ache would never subside, and needless to say, he was not sleeping well. He was worried. At the very least, Wright had been a good friend, someone whose influenced had changed his life for the better and to whom he owed his very freedom. Ideally, Wright had been a man whom Miles had seriously considered a potential partner, in the truly personal sense. The two had somewhat danced around one another since their reunion, and all that time, he'd grown more and more fond of the idea. It was simply that he lacked the impulsiveness to throw caution to the winds and confess his desires. Perhaps Wright had had some of the same reservations, concerned about what might happen to their friendship and professional relationship should those feelings be so blatantly stated.

Miles thoughts were interrupted as he came upon a mass of idle vehicles, headed by several sets of flashing lights indicating emergency vehicles. The road ahead was blocked off, and he was nearly upon a traffic jam that looked in no rush to be cleared. He had to make a quick decision, and opted to turn off onto a side street and find an alternate route rather than spending what could be an hour or so waiting for the wreckage to be pushed aside and the gawkers to pass by. He was dismayed to find that this particular route was going to take him to the outskirts of the city before he could get back on track, but he was certain it would still save him time in the long run.

It was as he wound his way down a dark back street, having to flick on his high beams to see properly, that he felt his car suddenly jerk. It startled him badly, interrupting any lines of thought he was currently traveling along and making him gasp and clutch the wheel. The car was jolted again, as if something extremely heavy had just collided with it, and his tires screeched as he fought to maintain control. The third time it happened, he nearly swerved so far to the right that he would have collided with a telephone pole. Doing all he could to contain his panic, Miles slammed on the brakes and slid onto the shoulder of the road, coming to a stop while his heart hammered against his ribs. He kept his headlights on, not about to shut them off and leave himself in total darkness with… whatever was out there… if there _was_ anything.

He sat frozen, waiting with baited breath for anything to happen. Nothing did. It was silent save for the incessantly chirping crickets and other various insects in the grass and trees nearby. Had something really hit his car? Was there any damage? What could it have been, and why had it hit three times? That could not have just been his car acting up; it was running perfectly fine! Unless, of course… someone had tampered with it… Then, if that was the case, why had it run just fine until now?

As much as he dreaded the idea of getting out of his vehicle in a place like this, he didn't see any other option. If he started driving and it happened again, he could very well end up in a ditch or smashed up against a tree. Granted, he had no idea what awaited him outside, what could happen to him there, but he had to check the car, try and discern what had happened.

The prosecutor took in a deep breath and steeled himself before pulling the door handle and stepping out into the mild Los Angeles night. Keeping the door open, he began to look around. There did not seem to be anyone or anything nearby, so his attention turned to the vehicle itself.

He immediately noticed the dents in the roof. His stomach lurched in shock and anger. What had made those!? What had fallen on his car while he drove, and how could it have been heavy enough to nearly cause him to lose control?

As he pondered the dents, he felt a rush of air behind him, as if something traveling at an alarming speed had just passed him. It caused him to immediately whirl to face the direction in which the 'whoosh' had gone, but he could see nothing. He didn't think it was possible for his heart to race any faster, but it was most certainly trying. He actually feared one more scare would send him into cardiac arrest, and slowly, he turned back to examine the dents on his car.

He was looking at the silhouette of a man, crouched on hands and knees on top of his car. Miles could only stare with wide eyes, able to comprehend neither how the man had gotten there nor why he was there. He realized his mouth was open, but he did not yet have the muscle control needed to close it.

"You look surprised to see me, Edgeworth."

That voice… He knew that voice… But it couldn't be…

Miles blinked, rubbing his eyes as if they were the offenders. He looked harder at the shadow, managing to pick out a face amongst the solid black clothing he wore. He also recognized the unmistakable protrusion of spikes from the back of the head, and as gray eyes met blue, his heart finally stopped beating.

One.

His eyes: they weren't right.

Two.

Why was he on top of the car; had he made the dents?

Three.

Why was he dressed like that? Phoenix Wright didn't dress like that.

Miles took in a gasp, clutching the left side of his chest as he stumbled back a pace. His heart was beating again, so rapidly it was making him feel as if he would be sick. He stared, momentarily unable to form words or even consider composing himself. He just couldn't put the pieces together in his mind, and the only conclusion he could draw was that he was mistaken about something. What, he wasn't sure, but _something_, surely.

With a fluid grace Miles had never before seen of him, Phoenix dropped down off the car to stand before him, now better lit by the headlights. He was so very pale, skin standing out in stark contrast to his black clothing. His eyes appeared somewhat sunken, as if he'd not slept in many days, but at the same time, they were so very bright and intense, almost unnaturally so. Miles thought perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he was sure he'd never seen Wright look more alert.

A slight chuckle escaped the man before him, and in a familiar gesture, Phoenix reached up to rub the back of his neck. "Well, say something."

Miles opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, realized he wasn't sure what he wished to say, and then closed it again. He needed to get himself together! This was unbecoming of a man like him, and he was making an utter fool of himself in front of Wright! He gritted his teeth, taking in a few deep breaths to try and force his body to relax and slow down a little; he felt a powerful urge to run.

"W-Wright… Did you…? How did you…? Why are you…?" He swallowed, clutching his head in frustration for a brief moment before he finally settled on a question and lowered his hands to fix the man with the best glare he could muster at the moment. "Where have you been?"

"Hm." The slightest of smirks curved Phoenix's mouth and he took on an aloof posture, staring off somewhere to Miles' left. "That is the question, isn't it? I feel like I've been everywhere lately… yet nowhere…"

At last, Miles was managing to regain some of his long-lost composure. His glare hardened a little and he pointed an accusing finger at the former defense attorney. "That is not an answer, Wright," he stated. "Have you any inkling of the manpower that has gone into investigating your whereabouts?" He had a billion questions to ask, but he needed to form them into some type of cue to keep himself from stumbling over his words and asking too many at once.

Phoenix looked at him more directly again, but he was still smirking. "I'm sure I have some idea," he replied. "I'm going to guess that it's been just a little less manpower than went into searching for you when you disappeared."

Miles flinched, realizing he had walked right into that trap, and that he had probably deserved the string of being caught in it. He was quick to recover, however. "So then, you have returned? What are you doing out here? Did you do that to my car?" Miles now pointed at the roof of his damaged vehicle, unsure of how Phoenix could have possible done such a thing, but asking regardless.

Phoenix turned his shoulders slightly, hands in the pockets of his black pants, following where Edgeworth's finger pointed. "Hm… Yeah, I guess I might've done that. Sorry, but I needed to get your attention." He turned back, the smirk gone. "That's what I'm doing out here, by the way: getting your attention so you'll know I'm…" He stopped, mouth hanging open briefly as if he'd been about to say something and then changed his mind. After a brief pause, he finished the thought. "…still around."

Anger was starting to replace the shock and confusion through which Miles was wading. "Get my attention?!" Phoenix was now receiving the prosecutor's iciest glare. "Have you gone mad?! You know where I work! You have my personal phone number! Why – in the name of all that is good and reasonable – would you need to leap atop my vehicle as I drive down a deserved back street to get my attention!? And, that is not even addressing the question of _how_ you did such a thing!"

"You… might wanna' stop yelling." Phoenix seemed completely unfazed by the glare or the shouting. "Anyway, I had my reasons. Didn't mean to bang up your car, but you won't really be needing it anymore."

Miles faltered. "I… beg your pardon."

It happened so quickly that the prosecutor couldn't follow it, couldn't comprehend for several delayed seconds. Suddenly, Phoenix was no longer in front of him, and Miles was certain he'd not even blinked. Instead, someone – Phoenix – was behind him, one arm encircling his waist and the other hand clamped over his mouth. The hand was cold, as if made of clay and not flesh heated by blood. Miles yelled in protest and made a fierce attempt to break the hold, but Phoenix did not budge an inch, as if he was struggling against the grasp of a stone golem. His struggles ceased when he heard Phoenix's voice right by his ear, low and containing a sinister note he had never before imagined he would hear from the former defense attorney.

"I'm sorry, Edgeworth… I thought I could resist long enough to show myself to you, so you would stop looking… but I can't resist you… Not anymore…" Next, he heard a strange sound, a sort of click, but… fleshy… At the same time, his cravat was torn so suddenly from his neck that he had barely noticed one of the hands holding him move. His neck was now bear, and with an alarmed, muffled cry, he felt a cold mouth against the newly exposed skin.

What was Wright doing?! What was happening?! This was… so unreal, so impossible, and yet he couldn't even figure out _what_ it was! He tried to shake his head, to tell the man 'no', that he didn't want whatever he was planning, but the grip was so strong he couldn't move his head an inch.

"God… you smell amazing…" Phoenix breathed in what sounded so alarmingly like an enraptured whisper, a chilled tongue lightly beginning to lap at a choice spot on the side of his neck, just over an artery. Miles only had a brief moment to realize that he could also feel something sharp pressing against his skin before he felt the bite.

It was as if someone had just jammed two huge needles mercilessly into his neck. The prosecutor was unable to contain the sharp cry of pain that erupted from him in response to such a sudden sensation, the pain shooting up the side of his neck and down to his shoulder. Still, with a hand clamped firmly over his captive's mouth, Phoenix held his head firmly in place, slightly tilted to the side to better access his chosen spot, and also muffle that scream. Miles could feel the blood being drawn out by an eager sucking pressure, while the cold tongue lapped it up when it surfaced.

Then, the fangs were drawn out and he heard Phoenix's voice again, filled with nothing but pure ecstasy. "…And you taste even better. Why did I wait so long?"

His mind was reeling. Miles could not even begin to understand what was happening to him, but he knew he had to get away, to escape this unreal and terrifying situation. He began to struggle again, lashing back with his elbows to try and stagger the man holding him. He kicked back with a heel, making solid contact with a shin bone. However, Phoenix didn't even flinch, and instead, he heard a chuckle of dark amusement.

"You want to run," Phoenix observed. "Okay. I'll humor you. In fact, I'll give you a ten-second head start." He removed the hand covering Miles' mouth, allowing the prosecutor to lean away from him and take in larger gasps for air in his panic. "Ready… Set… Go!"

The instant that arm was removed from his waist, Miles was running. He had no idea where he was going, nor did he care. Like a spooked deer, he simply bolted away from the source of his fear, running faster than he'd ever run in his entire twenty-seven-year life.

"Ten… Nine… Eight…"

Phoenix's counting only spurred him onward, fueled by pure terror and adrenaline. He dived into the trees, hoping to lose any pursuit by taking a winding path and disappearing from sight.

"Seven…! Six…! Five…!"

The counting was getting farther and farther away. He could feel warm blood trickling down his neck, staining his vest and dress shirt at his shoulder. He rushed headlong over fallen branches and ground clutter, knowing only that he needed to get away. His life depended on it.

"Four…! Three…! Two…!"

He could barely hear the shouted countdown any longer. He was escaping! He would make it! He just had to keep running and not look back!

"…One!"

The air was expelled from his lungs in a rush as something slammed into his back. He would have crashed face-first into the ground at such a speed as to prevent him catching himself with his hands had a pair of powerful arms not coiled around his waist and chest to instantly and violently halt his forward momentum. He was left frozen and desperately trying to take in a breath, but it wouldn't come.

"…Got you…" Though he couldn't see it, he could hear the smirk on the face of the man behind him. He was given no time to recover as those fangs sank in again, the shock of pain sharp enough to finally force his lungs to pull in air. He heard a low rumbling growl in the throat of the man whose body he was being crushed against, and before too long, he unmistakably felt something hard beginning to press against his backside.

It was at this point that Miles stopped trying to understand. He knew things like this didn't happen, that the man – the creature – holding him, drinking from him, slowly dragging him down to the leaf litter, did not exist. Therefore, what was happening to him… could not actually be happening. The terror and the impossibility of it all seemed to shut him down, and he ceased his struggles and cries of protest. He just trembled, going rigid so that the other man had to put force into maneuvering his captive's body. Miles was simply petrified, and he was so very certain he would black out at any point, go catatonic and shut out all of this horribly painful terror that wasn't real.

He seemed to go numb, and though he stayed conscious, it was only enough to vaguely keep track of the situation. It was as if he watched someone else being pinned to the ground, having their clothes torn from their body, being covered in rough, lustful kisses. Someone else was sobbing or screaming out in anguish as they were penetrated, violated, subjected to the lust of a creature so deceptively resembling a human being.

Only when it was over did he slowly return to inhabit his own body, to see through his eyes and stare up into the face of madness. It was the face of Phoenix Wright, kneeling over him with hands on his shoulders, looking… sad and regretful. Miles became aware that his breath was coming in hitching sobs that he could not think to control, and he was gradually starting to feel the pain and just how frightened he truly was.

"…I can't leave you here," Phoenix said, voice having lost its sinister edge to be replaced with worry, and some other emotions Miles couldn't currently pick up on. "…And I can't bring myself to kill you, even though that would be the best way to cover my… lapse of control…" He turned his head to the side, looking away from what he had done to the man he'd once called a friend. He deliberated for a time, then looked back down. "I'm sorry, Edgeworth, but I have to take you with me."

A particularly violent sob shook the injured and weakened prosecutor, who turned his face away, unable to look into that face he knew so well… yet barely recognized. "…No…. No, please…. L-let me go…" he begged in a hoarse whisper, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

He felt a hand gently cup the side of his face, coaxing him to turn back toward the man above him. "Look at me, Miles," came the instruction, murmured softly in a tone that promised nothing but comfort and kindness. For so long Miles had imagined hearing that voice speak to him in such a way, soothe him, whisper its love, call him 'Miles', but now…

Reluctantly, Miles found himself opening his eyes to stare up at the face looming over him, and suddenly all of his focus was drawn to those intense blue eyes. His gaze was drawn inward until those… beautiful eyes were the only things he could see. He could not even blink; he didn't want to. It was as if Phoenix was sucking out his very soul with nothing more than a gaze.

"I want you to calm down, Miles…"

Phoenix's voice was everywhere, all around him and inside his head. Those eyes and that voice were everything, and he longed to do what they commanded.

"It's all going to be okay… Everything is all right…"

Everything _was_ all right. He was feeling so much calmer. His breathing came slow and even, drawn out and fed back to him by the will of those penetrating blue eyes. His heart beat more slowly, and his body no longer shook with sobs. Everything was all right…

"I want you to stay calm for me, and when I say so, I want you to close your eyes and go to sleep. You will sleep deeply… I'm sure you need the rest, don't you?"

"…Yes…" Miles heard himself saw, his own voice foreign to him, coming from another world.

"Of course you do. Now, close your eyes and go to sleep, Miles…"

Yes… Sleep sounded so wonderful, and he was not afraid. He was safe… Those eyes watched over him, and that voice protected him. His eyelids fluttered closed and he felt himself sinking into the merciful darkness, allowing himself to fall without an ounce of resistance.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I am taking nods from the series Southern Vampire Mysteries, or more commonly known as True Blood. Later on, some of the bits of lore I wil use come from World of Darkness, or Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines. Neither of which I own, of course, but I like bits from the lore and will be using them.

**Embrace the Night - Chapter 2**

Miles woke to the feel of a cool, damp cloth brushing gently across his forehead and cheeks. It felt like trying to swim up from some viscous black fluid that was clouding all of his senses, and it took some time before he felt it would be possible to open his eyes.

The light was dim, wherever he was, and the face of Phoenix Wright floated above him in his hazy vision. That haze rested heavily over his mind, and it was taking him longer than he would have liked to figure out where he was and what had happened to him. He became acutely aware that he wasn't wearing proper clothing, but there was something wrapped around his body, protecting him from the chill of the room. There was also an awful taste in his mouth, like blood but so much more bitter.

"Good, you're awake," Phoenix said, completing the task of wiping the sweat from his face and then taking the cloth away. Miles flinched as he felt a cold finger touch the side of his neck. "And it looks like it healed all right. Does it hurt?"

Miles swallowed, realizing his throat was dry. The touch and the question were starting to wave away the fog clouding his memories. Fear slowly began to replace dull bewilderment, and the source of that fear was standing over him, touching him, acting _concerned_ about him. No, somehow that spot on his neck where he'd been… bitten… didn't hurt, but why did Phoenix care? He'd been the one to… to…

"…Where have you taken me…?" His voice was hoarse, and speaking just barely above a whisper was the most he could manage.

A frown crossed Phoenix's ghostly-pale visage; clearly, he was miffed that his question had not been answered. "To my new home," he replied, then glanced off to the side. "…And yours, I guess."

"Why…?" That question meant so many things, from why he'd been brought here, to why Phoenix had disappeared, to why Phoenix had attacked him, hurt him, violated him…

Phoenix stepped back, hands in his pockets and expression grave. He watched Miles for a time, studying him, or perhaps contemplating his answer. Finally, he turned his back. "Let me get you some water." He began walking away, moving to a door on the opposite wall of the small bedroom and disappearing from sight.

Heart pounding, Miles forced himself to sit up. He was stiff all over, but strangely, the places he thought should hurt, didn't. He looked down at himself, now able to see that he was wearing a dark red dressing robe, cinched with a golden silk belt. The bed beneath him appeared to be a queen, and it took up a large portion of the room. The only other pieces of furniture were a glass nightstand and a chest of drawers. Miles noted that the furnishings and his own garb were… rather nicely-made, simple yet elegant. He knew well that Wright had never possessed much disposable income and had sometimes struggled just to pay the rent cost for his office. Yet, he had claimed that this was his 'new home' just a moment ago. How was that possible?

The dim light in the room was coming from a lamp on the nightstand, and Miles realized that the room had no windows. He was left to wonder what time it was and for how long he had been unconscious.

Above all, he was wondering what was going to happen to him now.

Taking a deep breath to try and steady himself, Miles pushed off the mattress and red satin sheets covering it to stand on shaky legs. He was at least grateful to discover he was wearing socks, as the floors were hardwood and quite cold. He padded slowly and cautiously toward the room's exit, and after peering around the heavy door of dark, polished wood, he moved into the next room.

He found himself in what appeared to be a study, or perhaps a small library. There was a black leather sofa and several matching armchairs, each with its own side table and lamp. Shelves lined the walls, and books lined the shelves, all neatly arranged and packed in tight. A fireplace was built into one of the walls, but like the room behind him, there was not a single window. Everything in the room had a dark, rich look to it, again making him question how this could possibly be where Phoenix Wright lived.

The sound of a door opening caused him to turn abruptly to see Phoenix entering the room with a tray on his arm. With his free hand, he pushed the heavy door shut and then moved to set the tray down on a glass-topped coffee table before the sofa. It bore a glass of ice water and a plate with some kind of biscuit. Miles watched all of this from near the bedroom, feeling a strong urge to retreat as far from the other man as possible.

Phoenix straightened up and turned to him. "You should come sit down and eat. Your wounds are healed, but you still need to get your strength back."

Miles didn't move. "I will accept nothing you offer me until you explain to me why I am here and what is going on. In fact, I believe you should also have to explain why – after what you… did to me – I should believe you have any regard for my health or well-being." As frightened as he was, Miles Edgeworth would not meekly submit to his fate, especially without knowing exactly what that fate entailed.

Phoenix looked away, stuffing his hands into his pockets again. "Yeah, I know I owe you all of that, but it's a lot more complicated than you might think. It's not something I can just… tell you and have you accept so easily."

Miles took in a breath, and he couldn't stop it from shuddering as the anger and fear welled up more strongly within him. He couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice, either. "Wright, if you think there is _anything_ you could possibly say that would make me understand or accept what you've done, you are absolutely and unequivocally the most delusional man I have ever met."

Phoenix lowered his head, a look of remorse and shame only partially hidden from Miles' view. "Will you just sit down? It'll be easier to explain everything if you do."

Miles fixed him with a defiant glare and pointed at him accusingly. "Why? Will that make it easier for you to corner and contain me should I attempt escape?"

Phoenix raised his head and settled a sober stare on the prosecutor, intense blue eyes seeming to bore into him. "You didn't forget, did you? You can't outrun me, and you can't fight me off. Why would I need some other advantage like that to keep you here?"

Miles' stomach began turning summersaults at the mere memory of the freakish speed and strength Wright had demonstrated the night before… Or was it the same night…? Or had it been longer…? Whenever it had been, he was still having trouble reconciling that it had happened at all. No one was that fast, and while there were men who could probably overpower him in such a way, Phoenix had never been one of them. He was just a lawyer, an average man in average shape who flinched like anyone else when he took a hit.

Under that stare, Miles felt his courage falter, not that he'd had much to begin with. He needed answers, and it was becoming clear that his sitting down was the condition for receiving them. Fighting to steel himself, he began walking toward the couch, making every effort not to look at the man standing on the other side of the coffee table. He sat down, rigid, with his right hand grasping his left elbow and his head lowered so that his bangs shadowed his eyes.

"First of all," Phoenix began, "I brought you here because the only other choice would have been to kill you, and I don't think I could bring myself to do that."

"Why…?" Miles still couldn't look at the man, and though his throat burned, he still didn't reach for the ice water. "Why would you have had to kill me?"

"Because – whether you want to believe it or not – you found out what I am last night." He couldn't recall the last time he'd heard Wright remain so deadly serious for such a long period of time. "My kind has to stay hidden, and that's getting more and more difficult now days. If you'd reported what happened and had your injuries treated, it would have probably caused a lot of trouble for us."

At last, Miles looked up to glare at Phoenix. "Wright, what on Earth are you talking about? Your 'kind?' What does that even-?"

"I'm a vampire."

Not for the first time, Miles was stunned speechless with his mouth hanging slightly agape. Those words buzzed around in his brain, each word registering, the complete meaning registering, and then the overwhelming absurdity of the statement registering. He closed his mouth, pressing his lips into a tight line as he weighed his own reaction. "…Ludicrous," he finally stated. "You think this is a joke?"

"Am I smiling?" Phoenix asked pointedly, one eyebrow slightly quirked. "I wasn't aware." No, he wasn't smiling. He looked deadly serious as he had since Miles had awakened. "Yeah, I get that it sounds absolutely insane, but just think about it and you'll realize I'm telling the truth."

Miles tried to think about it for only a brief second, then mentally shook himself. No! Such a thing was not even worth _considering!_ "What the hell do you take me for, Wright? Did you really expect I would buy into such a preposterous story? There is absolutely no scientific proof that-"

He was on his back, lying against the arm of the couch with all the air expelled from his lungs. Phoenix had him pinned by the shoulders, standing over him and leaning in so that his face was only inches away. "Proof?" he repeated in that low, sinister voice Miles had first heard only the previous night. It had a growl in it, as if Phoenix were being overtaken by some vicious beast. "You want proof. Here's your proof." Phoenix opened his mouth wide, and as Miles watched with wide eyes, his canines extended a full inch with that fleshy clicking sound Miles had heard the previous night. Those long teeth came to deadly points, and Miles knew now that he had felt those fangs puncture his skin the night before.

Panic was sinking in again, and he still couldn't pull a breath.

"I drank your blood last night, Miles, and - God - I loved it!" Phoenix exclaimed in what sounded like a hiss. "Even now, I want more, and your fear is only making it harder to resist."

At long last, Miles managed to gasp in a breath, and suddenly he was on the verge of hyperventilating. What he was looking at was so impossible, yet it was right there before him, staring him in the face and daring him to deny fact.

"Go on, Miles, check for a pulse," Phoenix was saying, grabbing hold of the prosecutor's hand and placing it against his own neck. "You won't find one. I've been dead for months!"

There was no rhythm beneath the cold flesh, though it was difficult to tell beyond the pounding of his own blood throughout his entire body, trying to encourage him to fight, to flee from the hungry predator looming over him, baring its fangs. All he could do, however, was lie there and stare up at such a terrifying sight. He was helpless and trapped, so he merely squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the beast to snap its jaws on his throat and rip it out.

The pressure lifted from his shoulders and he felt the displacement of air as Phoenix moved back away from him. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, watching as the pale corpse in black stood up straight and peered at him, the wild look in his eyes slowly fading. With a slight grunt of effort, Phoenix retracted his fangs and closed his mouth, clearly struggling with his nature. "But… I'm not going to feed from you… not until I need to. You need time to recover."

Through the terror, through the turmoil in his mind, only one question came to Miles' lips. "…How…?"

Phoenix watched him for a time, contemplating the one-word question and what it meant. "How did I become a vampire? Well, I was turned, just like all the others." Slowly, Phoenix walked away from him, going around the coffee table and beginning to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. "I was in a dark place after the Bar Association made its decision, and with no one around to talk some sense into me, I got it into my head that I had nothing left to live for. I decided it would be nice and poetic to take a dive off a bridge, hoping this time I wouldn't wake up in the hospital." A wry smile tugged at the corners of the man's mouth. "I didn't, of course. I woke up in the ground."

Miles hadn't moved from where he'd been lain out on his back on the couch, hands clutching the fabric of the dressing robe at his chest. "But… there were… no reports of your death… No body was… was found in the river or otherwise…" How, then, had Phoenix been buried?

Phoenix stopped pacing and turned to face him. "That's because the one who found me didn't report it, and I wasn't dead… Yet." He brought his hands back around to stuff them in his pockets. "I was found by an old vampire named Alastair. Apparently, he recognized me, and decided I was to be his new Progeny, though he didn't know I'd thrown myself into the river. He just performed the ritual to turn me, and part of that involves the Maker and their new Progeny spending a day buried beneath the ground."

It was difficult for Miles to take in all of this information while still struggling with the idea that vampires did, in fact, exist and that one was standing right in front of him in the form of his childhood friend Phoenix Wright. "So… for the past few months, you have…. You have been…"

"…Staying here," Phoenix finished for him, withdrawing a hand to gesture around at the room and the building in which it sat. "I've been here with my Maker, learning how to *live* as a vampire: how to hunt, how to feed, how to hypnotize, and most importantly, how to hide."

With a great deal of effort, Miles used his elbows to push himself into more of a sitting position, a half-hearted attempt at restoring a little of his dignity. "There… There is another… v… v-vampire here?" Just saying the word felt wrong, as if speaking it aloud gave credence to something he could otherwise refuse to believe.

"Yeah," Phoenix replied with a nod, then added, "but he won't bother you. He has his own human, and from what I can tell, he's pretty fond of her."

"His own…?" He couldn't finish the repetition of that altogether disturbing phrase. "S-so am I some sort of… possession now?" He could feel the anger rising again, though – as had been the case since all of this had started – it was closely coupled with terror.

Phoenix turned his head away slightly, staring off at something nondescript. "In a way, I guess," Phoenix answered, almost as if it was no big deal. "I mean, you're still a human being with free will and whatnot; I get that, but this is really the only way. If I say you're mine, no other vampire is allowed to feed from you, or do anything else with you, without my permission. It's an ancient law and pretty sacred; not many vampires would dare risk breaking it. The punishment is pretty severe, I hear. It's really the only way I know to keep you safe."

Law? Punishment? Keep him safe?! Miles gripped his head in his hands. "Are you trying to tell me there is some sort of… of justice system for… the undead?" How absurd…!

"There's a whole society, actually," Phoenix informed him, now folding his arms across his chest. "I was pretty surprised, too. It's not quite like human society, and justice is a bit more… erm… Medieval, but it's definitely structured. It's complicated and I won't lay it all on you right now; there's plenty of time for that."

Miles lowered his hands and suddenly stood up, facing Wright with a fearsome glare and clenched fists. "Plenty of time?! Like Hell, Wright! I _refuse_ to just meekly surrender to being your… your personal plaything! I am a grown man with a career and responsibilities: a life! If you believed even for a moment that I would submit to this, you clearly never knew a thing about me or who I am!" Miles was livid, and he vowed right then and there that he would escape, even if it meant he had to find a way to kill this undead abomination that had once been Phoenix Wright!

Instead of rising to the challenge, Phoenix just lowered his head and shook it slowly, that remorseful look returning. "No, I didn't really think you'd be okay with any of this, but you don't really have a say in the matter. It was my decision."

"It's my life!" Incredulous was too weak a word for what Miles was feeling upon hearing Phoenix so bluntly state that he had no say regarding his own life.

Yet again, Miles found himself under that intense, piercing stare. "So, you'd rather die; is that what you're telling me? Those are your two options, after all. Either you stay here with me as my human, or you go out there and Alastair – or some other vampire – sucks you dry before you can reveal our existence to mankind." Phoenix did not break that stare, keeping Miles under the weight of it as if to drive home the true gravity of the situation he was now in.

It wasn't necessary; it was already sinking in.

"…So it is either live here as your prisoner, allowing you to feed on and… and use me whenever you like, for the rest of my life… or die." In all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure which one sounded worse, more terrifying. This all still seemed like some sort of vivid nightmare, but he had already attempted to wake himself several times and it had not worked; he was already awake, and he did not wish to be. "…What kind of choice is that…?"

"A pretty shitty one, I'm sure," Phoenix remarked in a flat tone, "but it might not be for the rest of your life. It's just for right now, until things change."

"What do you mean?" Miles asked immediately, desperately needing to know what could _possibly_ save him from this.

Phoenix frowned. "Sorry, but I can't really tell you that."

"What?!" Miles bellowed, every muscle in his body painfully tense. "I deserve to know!"

"I agree," Phoenix said, arms folded, calm as ever, "but I can't tell you. Knowing would… well… sort of tamper with the possible outcome."

Miles was taking quick, angry breaths through clenched teeth, utterly furious at his own helplessness and Wright's refusal to make any kind of amends for what he had done. "Y-you're… You're right: you're not human any longer. You're… a-a monster… Phoenix Wright died that day in the river…"

"Heh…" Phoenix looked off at an angle, into the distance of his own thoughts. "Now you're starting to get it…" With that, the undead man turned his back on his prisoner, slowly beginning to walk toward the exit. "The sun will be coming up soon, so I'll have to leave you alone. I suggest you stay here. I'll be back tonight, and I'll bring you another meal."

Miles stood in place, watching as Phoenix just… walked away, left him standing there and closed the door behind himself. For a few seconds, he felt frozen in place, and then he dropped heavily back onto the sofa behind him, his whole body succumbing to a violent tremor. He covered his face with his hands, fiercely fighting to keep the burning in his throat and behind his eyes from producing tears. His chest felt so tight he thought it might crush his still-racing heart to a pulp.

Memories of the previous night began to flood his mind again, and they were intermingled with those of the years prior. He saw bright-eyed and lively Phoenix Wright, standing across the courtroom from him shouting an objection, then pale Phoenix Wright standing between him and his car, a dark hunger in those same – yet so very different – blue eyes. He saw Phoenix Wright standing on the outside of the visitation room of the Detention Center with a fierce determination to save him, and then watched from his place pinned on the ground as a wild predator prepared to rape him.

It wasn't the same man… There was absolutely no possible way it could be…

A deep, anguished, shuddering sob rose from within him as Miles Edgeworth finally realized that his best friend – the man he could only now admit that he'd _loved_ - was dead and gone.


	4. Chapter 3

**Embrace the Night - Chapter 3**

Every step he took sounded like a clap of thunder in his own ears. The hallway outside his *chambers* was deserted, windowless, and silent, giving him the distinct feeling that something – or someone – was going to leap out at him at any second. Miles tightened his grip on the fireplace poker he was holding out before himself, eyes darting to every corner, every shadow, every doorway – open or closed. In truth, his socks barely made any sound against the wood floors, but if the myths were true, Wright could now hear a pin drop a hundred yards away.

He moved past a few doors, a couple opening into a basic bedroom, one into a sitting area, and one into a stairwell. That was likely his way out, and where the midway landing turned the steps out of sight, he could see a very faint reflection of light against the wall – sunlight, surely. However, as much as he wanted to dash up the stairs and to freedom, he knew he stood no chance of survival if Phoenix and his… Maker… were still alive…

…Well… maybe not alive, but…

Swallowing hard, Miles forced himself to turn back around. He had to figure out where they spent the days. It had to be somewhere down here; at least that was the most logical conclusion he could draw. He just needed to figure out which door would lead him in the right direction. Stepping as lightly as possible, he began to move to each of the closed doors. He crouched down, attempting to peer underneath to discern what was beyond, but the rooms were far too dark for him to see anything through such a small sliver of an opening.

Feeling as though his heart was about to burst, Miles took hold of the handle of a large door at the end of the hall, opposite the stairway leading upward. He winced as the hinges creaked loudly and had a fleeting urge to bolt back to his own little holding cell and act as though nothing had happened. He stayed still, however, and after listening for a time and hearing no movement, he pulled the door the rest of the way open and found himself gazing down half a dozen wide steps into a dark corridor.

Cold, dank air hit him full in the face, and he was instantly certain that this was where he'd need to go. He looked around, spotting a wedge he could use to prop the door open; he would need the light to see what he was doing. Once this was done, he took a moment to steel himself and cautiously descended into the musty cellar.

What he found below was a simple and relatively short corridor with cubby openings on either side. There were six of them – three on each wall – and they stood only about four feet high. There was not enough light to tell how deep they were from where he stood, but the feeling that something was going to jump out at him amplified at the mere sight of them.

His socks already damp as he moved across the slick, mossy stone floor, Miles began peering into the alcoves. From what he was able to see, the openings appeared to go back about ten feet, but as he checked each and found nothing inside, he began to think he'd been mistaken about their purpose.

That was until he reached the final pair. In the alcove on the left lay a man Miles had never before seen. It was too dark to make out details, but he was wearing black just as Phoenix did. His hair was quite long, strands lying over his chest while the rest fanned out around his head on the floor where he lay completely motionless. A well-trimmed beard covered his chin, and his face appeared sharp and somewhat gaunt, perhaps even paler than Phoenix's. His eyes were open, but at this distance and without the aid of more light, Miles could neither see their color nor at what they stared. He hoped it was simply the rock ceiling above the man… creature… thing…

Afraid to even breathe, Miles drew back from the opening and turned to face the one across from it, certain he would find what he was looking for there. His hands shook as he approached, and he could barely keep his balance on quivering legs as he leaned down to peer inside.

Just as he'd suspected, there lay Phoenix, eyes open and still as the dead. His hands were folded over his stomach, and Miles oddly wondered if he'd slept like that in life… with his eyes closed, of course. No, he'd always imagined Wright sleeping more sprawled out, or perhaps curled up on his side. His position here reminded Miles of nothing so much as the bodies he was so accustomed to seeing laid out after their autopsy, ready to be shipped off to wherever they were to await the burial ceremony of their family's choice or burned to ash. It reminded him of the sight of his father's body, laid out in his coffin as distant relatives and friends passed by, leaving flowers and their sympathies – so unnaturally still and peaceful.

To this day, the memory still hurt and he knew he needed to push it out of his mind if he was going to do this. As afraid as he was of making any noise, he had to take in a deep, steadying breath. He could do this… That wasn't Phoenix Wright anymore… Phoenix Wright was dead, and some… creature was using his corpse to wreak havoc, to torment those he'd once called friends. He could do this… He had to do this…

A rush of air caused him to lurch back, nearly slipping on a patch of wet stone. He put a hand against the wall to keep his balance, and then gasped as the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. Darkness closed in around him and panic nestled deep in his gut, a dizzy, fainting feeling causing him to lean fully against the wall to stay upright.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as hands grasped his waist from behind and pulled him back against a man's body. He wanted to scream, but his throat had closed up. It was just as well: the only people that would hear him were those that viewed him as a meal or a pet.

"I thought I told you to stay put," said Phoenix's dark growl near his ear. "You're lucky Alastair decided to let me handle you."

He should have known this was useless, that he would fail and suffer for it. Miles could hardly breathe, much less say anything in his defense or even plead for mercy. He just stood rigid and trembling in the grasp of a risen corpse, waiting for the feel of those fangs piercing his flesh.

He felt a cold hand close over his that was holding the fireplace poker, and then the weapon was pulled from his grasp. "So, this was your plan, Miles?" Phoenix hissed, pulling the prosecutor tighter against himself. "I'm a little disappointed; you're smarter than that. You thought you were going to stick me with this, I'd die, and then you could just walk out of her scot-free?"

Still, Miles could not bring himself to say anything, and now he felt like a complete fool. His fear and desperation had gotten the better of him, and while he hadn't been certain this would work, he'd at least felt there was some hope of success. The way Phoenix was speaking, it sounded as if it had been the most ignorant plan ever conceived.

"Phoenix."

Miles felt his heart stop at the sound of the unfamiliar voice behind them.

"I'm taking care of it, Alastair," said Phoenix, turning his head to peer back at the other man.

"If you're going to teach your human a lesson, take it into the hall so I can rest."

"Yeah, sure. Sorry."

Miles gasped and his heart dropped into his stomach at a sudden lurch of motion, and then he blinked rapidly as light nearly blinded him. He was back out in the hallway with the large door to the cellar closed before him. Phoenix set him back down on his feet and then turned him around so that they were facing one another.

Miles recoiled at the sight of the man. He had blood seeping from his eyes like a stream of gruesome tears, and there was something different about his eyes. They were glassier, not nearly as focused and alert as they usually seemed. "Unpleasant, isn't it?" Phoenix sneered, seeing what Miles was staring at. "This is what happens when I'm kept up during the day. Interesting little note: I also cry blood now." He wasn't calm and distant anymore; he was bitter and Miles could practically feel the anger radiating from him. He was certain whatever was about to happen to him would hurt. Badly.

Hands on his shoulders, Phoenix gave Miles a shove backward. The prosecutor hit the door behind him hard enough to knock the wind from him and probably leave a knot on the back of his head. He dropped to the floor, fighting for a breath and extremely dizzy, and only vaguely did he hear something metal clatter to the floor before him. When he finally managed to gather his wits and look up, panting, he saw the poker lying just within his reach, between him and Phoenix's black boots.

"Go ahead," said the man standing over him. "Give it a try. I'll just stand here and let you take a stab wherever you want."

Trembling, Miles reached out and curled his fingers around the long, sharp object, dragging it across the polished wood floor toward him. He didn't trust this… It was some kind of game, meant to teach him just how powerless he truly was. Feeling sick with terror, Miles struggled back to his feet, bracing himself on the door behind him as his head swam dangerously. He leveled a glare at Phoenix.

"Don't toy with me, Wright," he said through his stiff vocal chords, feeling and sounding as if he was being choked. "You've made your point."

"No, I haven't," Phoenix declared, matching his glare. "Do it. Pick a spot and run me through. You can do it, and I'll let you. Go on. You deserve a shot at freedom, after all."

A shot at freedom… and likely the only one he would ever get. Miles swallowed hard and gripped his makeshift spear in both hands. He was trying hard to steady himself, but the shaking wouldn't stop. He lowered the point, holding the object horizontally and aiming for the left side of the man's chest. The heart: that was what the legends said. Stake them through the heart, and they would die for good. He hadn't the slightest idea if it was true, but he had no other information from which to work. If nothing else, being stabbed through the heart would kill anything, so perhaps these creatures would be no different.

He stared at his mark, merely a foot from the point of his spear, and readied himself for the thrust. Yet, he felt frozen. His eyes flicked up to the face of the man before him and he felt his stomach twist violently; he thought he'd be sick. He couldn't do this! It was Phoenix. canines_Phoenix!_canines He couldn't kill Phoenix! Back in the cellar, he'd looked like nothing so much as a dead body, but now he was standing here, staring directly at him, speaking, waiting…

"What's wrong? Lost your nerve?" Phoenix asked in a mocking tone, now resorting to taunting him. "Afraid to kill a dead man?" He reached up to point at his own chest, right where the point was aimed. "Go on, do it. Right through the heart. Come on, Edgeworth! Don't be a little bitch! Stick me like I stuck you the other night!"

Something inside of him snapped, and with an enraged scream the likes of which he had never imagined coming from within his own chest, he lunged forward, driving the metal shaft with all his weight behind it into the other man's heart. He felt the impact. He felt the breech. He felt flesh and muscle tissue give way. He saw blood emerge from the rip in the black shirt to stain the metal and run down Phoenix's front. He saw a foot of iron disappear at the end of his white-knuckled hands.

He saw Phoenix flinch and stagger back.

Panic overcoming him, Miles let go of the shaft and stumbled backward, his back hitting the door as he stared with wide eyes at what he had just done. He'd just… killed a man… driven a spear through someone's heart… Oh God! He was a killer! A murderer! He'd planned it! He'd meant to do it! And he'd done it!

Phoenix straightened up, locking his muscles and setting his face in a firm mask to cover up the pain he was clearly in. As Miles watched in astonished horror, the metal shaft through his chest began slowly exiting the wound, covered in a thick coat of red. It made its way out completely and clattered to the floor. The wound still oozed blood, but the flow was slowly being stemmed and the wound appeared to be getting smaller, shallower.

It was healing right before his eyes.

"Get it now?" Phoenix asked, still in obvious pain but slowly becoming more relaxed as it ebbed away. "You were doomed to fail from the start. So, since I helped you heal after I attacked you the other night, you're going to return the favor."

There was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go, nothing he could say as he was seized and turned roughly around. Miles' breath came in quick, terrified gasps as he was pulled up against Phoenix, feeling the cold, wet, sticky blood instantly seep into his robe. His head was forced to the side and he heard the ominous sound of those fangs extending. In no time, the needle-like teeth tore into the side of his neck, wrenching a cry of agony from the helpless captive.

He felt paralyzed, unable even to struggle as Phoenix sucked on the wound to draw on his life fluid. He lapped eagerly at the warm substance with his cold tongue, a low growl that sounded like delighted purring rumbling in his chest; he was like a contented cat with a saucer of milk, only Miles could never have been so frightened of such an analogy. Phoenix removed his hand from Miles' chin and wrapped both arms around his middle, squeezing so hard Miles was sure he'd be crushed.

He was beginning to feel lightheaded and increasingly cold and numb. The hot, unbidden tears rolling down his paling cheeks registered less to him now, and even the searing pain in his neck and shoulder was starting to dull. Was he about to die? Was Phoenix too worked up – or too fed up – to stop himself this time? Would he be completely drained and left a dried-out corpse to rot away in a shallow grave, his fate never discovered by those he was leaving behind?

He was only vaguely aware as he descended to the floor, crumpling into a limp heap before his captor. The world swayed and spun around him. Nausea overcame him, and then darkness – sweet, merciful darkness.

* * *

><p>When Miles next awoke, he was alone.<p>

It was even more difficult this time to claw his way back to awareness, and he wasn't even sure he wanted to. Yet, eventually, he found himself lying on his back, in the small bedroom with the red satin sheets. Even when he was fully awake, he felt so very weak, stiff, and cold. On top of everything, that terrible taste was back again: sickeningly bitter blood. He could only guess at what it might be, and none of those guesses did he particularly like.

Shivering, he reached down to tug the red comforter up to his chin and then curled up into himself, desperately trying to find some warmth. Though the act of looking around made him dizzy, he did it anyway to ensure he was as alone as it seemed he was. He noted that the bedroom door was ajar to allot him a small glimpse into the library beyond.

Slowly, he reached up to gingerly touch the side of his neck. Again, he found that there was no wound, save for what felt like a light scarring that probably wouldn't last too long. He also noted that his robe was not stained with blood, and realized with a wave of humiliation that Phoenix had changed him while he was unconscious. Who knew what else had been done to him while he'd slept…?

His view into the library wasn't such that he could see the clock over the mantle, so he had no idea for how long he had slept or how much time he had to himself before Phoenix would return. The thought made his stomach turn and he shuddered in response, feeling even colder all of a sudden. Not for the first time, he wondered if death might be the better option, but again he had to deny himself that escape option. There was still some hope, some chance that he could find a way out of this. He owed it to himself and the people who were undoubtedly searching for him to stay alive and fight.

As it turned out, he'd been sleeping for most of the day, and it was perhaps an hour before he heard the outer door of the library open and shut. His body went on high alert, his heart beginning to gallop and his muscles tensing. He listened to the sound of boots on hardwood flooring, coming steadily ever closer, making him feel as though he was waiting for the executioner to approach with his axe held aloft. He shifted and curled up, closing his eyes and facing away from the door, hoping that if he appeared to be sleeping, he would be left alone.

It was a vain hope, and he should have known that Phoenix would not be so easily fooled.

He heard the sound of something heavy dropping to the floor outside the room, a muffled 'thump' with some odd jingling. Then, the door squeaked slightly as it was pushed open and the undead man stepped inside. The aroma of food hit Miles just before the other spoke. "Brought you breakfast." Miles could – in his mind – hear Phoenix Wright – the man – saying this in such an upbeat, chipper tone, a thought that brought with it so many hopes he'd once had that would never be. Now, his voice was just flat, almost off-handed, all passion gone.

At least he didn't sound angry… or hungry…

Miles didn't respond, still curled up with his back to his captor and the door of the room. Phoenix said nothing for a time, just placing something down on the nightstand.

Suddenly, Miles felt the bed shake and it caused him to gasp and his eyes to fly open. He was staring at Phoenix, who was on hands and knees beside him on the mattress. "Eat," the vampire commanded, though it was still just a calm, flat tone. Miles was beginning to wonder if – perhaps – this was the closest he could come to his old upbeat mannerisms in his new form, and that he should take this casual behavior as Phoenix being in a good mood.

Miles opted to say nothing and simply turned over, instinctively hiding himself as much as possible under the covers without actually ducking his head under. What he got in response was a dark chuckle.

"What're you now – an anti-social teenager?"

"…Leave me be…"

"Okay, close." He could hear the smirk in Phoenix's voice. "What you mean is 'Fuck you! You're not my real dad!' Go on. Try it. It'll feel good."

Miles bit down on his lower lip, holding in several bitter sarcasms that came to mind in that moment. Phoenix was toying with him… mocking him… adding insult to injury.

"Eat. You need to get your strength back." Miles' breath hitched in his throat as he felt Phoenix's hand on his shoulder and then heard the man's voice right next to his ear. "Can't try to kill me again if you can barely stand."

Miles didn't move a single muscle until that pressure was lifted and Phoenix moved off the bed. "Go on. I hear the cook is pretty good… and cooks pretty good food, too." Smirking at his own dark joke, Phoenix strode from the room with that fluid grace that he'd never possessed in life. He moved with perfect balance and precision, the gate of a hunter.

He sighed, finally turning to see what sat on the nightstand: a plate piled with eggs, hash browns, bacon, and two slices of toast. He hadn't eaten since early that morning and was rather hungry. After all, it had been a small meal and the only one he'd had after nearly forty-eight hours without anything.

Resigned for the time being, Miles sat up and took the tray, discovering a steaming cup of tea in the corner; had he been in a less awful situation, he might have been pleased. As he ate, he listened to Phoenix… doing something outside the bedroom door. He seemed to be digging through a box filled with something – or several things – made of metal. He then dragged one of the black leather chairs up to the door and stood on it. Miles was morbidly curious about what he was doing as he heard the sound of a drill, but decided to just focus on the food. He… had to admit it was good, but his situation soured everything, including a well-prepared meal.

An incessant jingling sound was what at last made Miles look up from his nearly finished food. He witnessed Phoenix swinging from a thick chain that appeared to be attached above the door, and his heart dropped into his stomach. He was sure what little blood was left in his face drained away; he instantly knew that chain was for him… It had to be.

Phoenix took one more swing and then released the chain, doing a full flip through the air as if to show off and then landing on his feet in the bedroom, facing Miles. "How's the food? Hopefully, the tea is up to your standards; I never learned to tell the difference, and I definitely can't now."

Miles just stared at him. Was he… trying to make small-talk? That sounded far too absurd – for so many reasons – to be the case, so the prosecutor decided he had to be up to something. "…What do you want, Wright…? What are you trying to do…?"

Phoenix quirked an eyebrow at him. "I'm trying to get an answer to a question. Apparently, I'm failing."

Miles didn't feel like finishing his food, so he just set the tray aside, looking away from his captor. Phoenix was… constantly confusing him. He wanted to be furious. He canines_was_canines furious, but at times like these… he felt like the Phoenix Wright he remembered was shining through the cruel darkness that had consumed him, and it was… so difficult to be angry, to hate him. "…Why did you hang a chain above the door…?" He dreaded the answer, but he couldn't ignore the elephant in the room… or just outside the room, as the case may be.

Phoenix let out a slow breath: Miles didn't normally see him breathing now that his attention had been drawn to it, but apparently those muscles and reflexes still worked. He reached up to scratch the side of his head, which he inclined toward his hand. "See, I was hoping to wait until later to get to that. You're not going to like it."

Miles glared, leaning forward. "Pray tell – what part of this canines_will_canines I like? Have I not made my displeasure abundantly clear to you?!"

"Displeasure?" Phoenix gave him a strange look. "I was getting a stronger vibe than 'displeasure' from you; maybe I'm just over-sensitive now." Phoenix smirked, and Miles stared at him with utter incredulity. "But, if you really wanna' know, I'll show you."

Miles waited on pins and needles as Phoenix exited the room once more to retrieve something. When he returned, he was holding some sort of thin metal object in his hands. It appeared to be two semicircular halves connected by a hinge and a clasp that allowed it to create a full circle. The clasp appeared to be a small lock, and it had a loop in it through which the opposite end of the chain was fed.

Miles lurched back, moving across to the other side of the bed to get farther away from his captor. "N-no!" he exclaimed, feeling foolish the instant he'd taken these actions: neither would save him.

Phoenix's expression had gone serious again. "You'll only have to wear it during the day when I'm resting," he stated, holding the metal collar open in his hand. "What happened earlier today… can't happen again. You might not survive next time."

Miles bared his teeth. "You say that as if it is out of your control."

"It sort of is," the undead man stated, a regretful look coming over him. "I'm still a very young vampire: a fledgling, they like to call me. My impulses are so much stronger than they ever were as a human, and even stronger than they would be in an older vampire… Kind of like a teenager, actually." He looked off, his amused little smirk flashing briefly over his expression before he sobered again. "You disturbed my rest earlier, and it was all I could do not to… really hurt you."

"Really hurt me!? You… You…" Miles couldn't even form an argument, couldn't figure out how to respond to a statement like that. He had been canines_really_canines hurt! He had lost what had to be a nearly lethal amount of blood.

A very dark look came into the other man's eyes. "You still have all your limbs, don't you?"

The prosecutor could not find a response to this either, so he fell silent, unable to keep his eyes off that metal collar intended to more securely hold him prisoner in this place.

Phoenix saw where he was looking and returned to his serious, flat, business-like tone. "The chain is pretty long, so you can move around this whole area. The collar isn't very heavy, and I'll make sure it's not too tight."

"…Is that supposed to make me more accepting of this…?" If so, it wasn't working.

Phoenix gave him a look of mock innocence. "Well, I canines_could_canines just chain you to the bed all day. That way, I wouldn't risk you deciding to hang yourself with this."

Miles chose silence yet again.

"That's what I thought." Phoenix turned and hung the collar around the door handle. "Now, I have a few more things to bring down here for you. I'm sure you'd like a wardrobe and some things for that bathroom in there." He pointed behind him to indicate the study, off of which there was a small bathroom complete with a combination shower-bathtub. "Just… do me a favor and stay in here, will you? Alastair has some friends over, and they might like you a little canines_too_canines much, if you catch my drift."

Miles just stayed in his crouched, defensive position against the far wall, saying nothing and watching until Phoenix turned at last to leave him alone. Knowing that there were even more vampires on the premises made him feel as though he would lose everything he'd just eaten, and he had to take several deep breaths to keep the reflex under control. He swallowed hard as he looked at the collar dangling ominously from the door handle, just waiting to be snapped around his neck just before the sun came up.

Slowly, he slid off the bed and stood on shaky legs, using the wall to support himself as he moved toward the exit of the bedroom, swiping the accursed chain aside to move past it. He desperately felt in need of a shower, and there was at least a bar of soap in the bathroom that he'd seen. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing.


	5. Chapter 4

**Warning****:** This chapter contains rape.

**Embrace the Night - Chapter 4**

It was driving him mad.

Miles tossed the chain over the back of the couch with a frustrated growl. The damned thing was constantly in his way, would get caught on things as he walked around, and prevented him from properly reaching the shower. He was completely certain that Wright had done that on purpose, ensuring that his captive could only shower at night when he was around to remove the accursed collar. Miles had been forced to sleep with the metal band around his neck, and being a light sleeper, he had awakened constantly for fear that he would suffocate.

He had, of course, attempted to break free of the chain. He'd started by simply trying to snap it, hoping there was a weak link and that, if he put enough strain on it, it would shatter. That had proven useless, as had trying to yank the anchor out of the wall above the bedroom door. He recalled watching Phoenix swing from the chain to test the anchor's integrity and knew it had been a futile attempt from the start. Lastly, he had tried breaking the collar or the chain's connection to it. This had only succeeded in leaving painful bruises on his neck, and the whole endeavor had left him feeling drained and hopeless.

Sighing, he reached up to adjust the band, trying in vain to make it more comfortable. It was getting more difficult to focus on the book he'd chosen to read, this being the first time he'd been awake and mobile enough to actually peruse the selection he'd been given to entertain him. It was an impressive collection, but – like the good food – it didn't warm him to his captivity. It just gave him a way to divert his attention for brief periods of time, the misery and horror of his situation always lurking in the back of his mind.

His body instantly tensed up when he heard the outer door open and shut heavily. He stayed perfectly still and rigid, staring at the book which he was no longer reading. He heard the approach and felt the cushion shift as Phoenix sat down beside him on the sofa. Then, his body tightened up even further when he saw Phoenix's hand come between him and his book to rest against his chest. He stayed frozen, afraid that if he even twitched, he would incur the wrath of the beast.

He felt the man's other hand slide up his back to the back of his neck, then heard the light clinking of metal against metal. A soft click, and suddenly the band around his neck parted. Phoenix pulled it away and let it fall uselessly to the couch. The prosecutor only felt a small measure of relief to have it off, considering the price was to now be in the grasp of his blood-thirsty jailor.

…And Phoenix wasn't removing his hands, the one that had held the key now moving down to rest on his lower back. Miles became acutely aware that the hand on his chest was over his heart, which had begun to race and force him to draw quick, shaky breaths.

"You're looking better." Calm, but far too low to be casual. Miles did not even dare to glance over at him, able to feel him leaning closer and having no desire to see the lust in those intense, inhuman eyes. He could feel Wright pressing against his shoulder, leaning toward the side of his neck, pressing his hand into his lower back and against his chest to slowly lean him back.

Miles jerked in a sudden, wild attempt to lunge away, get out of that grasp and off the couch, but before the thought could fully manifest itself into an action, Phoenix's grip tightened and he heard a predatory growl just by his ear. He was now held firm, the fingers of the hand over his heart curled slightly as if Phoenix intended to tear open his chest and extract his frantically pounding heart.

"You're making this impossible," came that hungry growl, sounding somewhat strained. "Haven't you ever been told that running from a predator is the worst possible thing you could do?"

It was getting hard to breathe. His throat was closing up and Miles was certain he was as pale as Phoenix by this point. What exactly was he making impossible? It sounded as if Phoenix was… trying to do something, and Miles was actually managing to make it difficult, but what could that be? He had an urge to struggle, because if Phoenix was trying to do something, it probably wasn't good, and cooperating was not what Miles wished to do at all. However, logical thought somehow reached him in this moment of purest panic and he knew that struggling – while it was what Phoenix wanted to prevent – would only ensure Miles got exactly what he feared. Yes, Phoenix was a predator now, and the act of fighting or running would only further provoke his instincts.

So, he sat petrified, staring at the opposite wall, afraid to blink, afraid to breathe, and absolutely terrified of making any other kind of move. Oddly enough, from the forced breathing he was hearing beside him, it sounded as if Phoenix was fighting his own battle, straining against some unseen power.

Unexpectedly, Miles was released. Phoenix let go and moved away from him a short distance. Miles didn't move immediately, sitting stunned. It had felt like stepping off a ledge, fully expecting to plummet to his death, and then simply finding solid ground only an inch below. When the surprise passed, he dared to look over, watching Phoenix sit with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He appeared to be… trying to calm himself, and Miles could see his muscles slowly relaxing.

Had he been… trying to resist his own urges? Had that been what he'd meant by Miles making something impossible?

Shaking, Miles very slowly rose from the couch, stiff and mechanical, afraid to make any sudden movements that might reawaken the beast. Taking even, measured paces, Miles moved into the bedroom and to the wardrobe he'd been given. Inside hung a few outfits, all of which could be described as formal-casual. They were at least tasteful, if a bit more subdued than what he normally wore. At least Wright hadn't picked out the frilliest clothing he could find in lieu of a cravat; people tended to get the wrong idea about what he considered stylish and exaggerated greatly to the point of making him sound obnoxious and overly flamboyant.

How many times had the thought, _"It's not pink: it's magenta!"_ crossed his mind?

He chose a pair of black slacks and a gray collared shirt, then – after getting a pair of boxers and black socks – he made his way back into the library with the clothing folded in his arms. Again, he moved at as steady and calm a pace as he possibly could, seeing that Wright hadn't yet lifted his head. He felt so tense he thought he might be sick, just knowing that at any second the undead man could spring up and tackle him to the floor.

When he reached the bathroom and locked the door, the tension left him in such a rush of relief that he nearly collapsed to his knees. He had to take a moment to catch his breath and slow his heart before he could even think of proceeding. He hunched over the sink, clutching the edge of the counter and watching himself in the mirror, trembling, pale, and panting. He found himself a dreadful sight and quickly wheeled around to twist the knobs in the tub and get the water going.

Once the water had warmed up enough, he disrobed and stepped under the spray, pulling the black curtain across the stall and then letting out a deep sigh, trying to expel more of the anxiety built up in his chest. Phoenix hadn't followed him… He was alone… He could relax a little and get himself cleaned up now that he had been given proper products to do so.

With bitter amusement he reflected on how – at one time – thinking of Phoenix in the shower had been a source of… entertainment, had often made him take a few extra minutes to tend to the effects those thoughts had on his body. Now, the thought of those cold, pale hands groping his naked flesh made him sick with horror. Sure, Phoenix looked basically the same, but he wasn't the same, and as prominent a feature as his lively blue eyes had been, it was more than a little unsettling to see them changed. It served as a constant reminder that the man he'd once known was not the corpse that had taken him prisoner.

He stood beneath the gentle, steamy waterfall for several minutes after he'd finished washing, eyes closed and leaning against the wall. He didn't want to go back out there with the chill and the fear. He couldn't say he was comfortable here, but it was certainly better than being out there. With a sigh of resignation, he turned off the water and reached out to grab one of the towels folded on a rack beside the stall. He took his time drying off, in no rush to get dressed and exit the bathroom. At last, he wrapped the towel around his waist and pulled the curtain back to step over the ledge of the tub onto the rug.

When he turned to his clothing laid out on the sink, he nearly suffered a heart attack. He stepped back, one hand going up to clutch at his chest and feeling parts of the towel rack jam into his back. With wide eyes he stared at Phoenix standing in the open doorway, hand resting on the lever and unnerving, lustful gaze fixed on him. The hand holding his towel closed tightened on the fabric, but he felt as though the man in black could see beneath it.

"W-Wright, get out!" Miles snapped, doing his best to cover shock and dread with anger. "If you must keep me here, can you not at least give me this much privacy?!"

Phoenix didn't seem to hear a word of it; he simply stared for a few long seconds, and then began slowly advancing. Miles wanted to retreat, but there was nowhere he could go; he was trapped. The panic was back and mounting with each step Phoenix took. It was a short distance to cover, and in only seconds there were cold fingers resting against his cheek, a hand cupping his chin, lips surrounding his own. The kiss was surprisingly gentle, the kind of kiss he had always wanted to share with the man Phoenix had once been. Now, a sound of protest rose from his throat and he tore his face away, darting to the side and swinging his right hand around in a swift punch.

His fist made solid contact with Phoenix's nose and he could feel and hear the cartilage crunch beneath the impact. It was a sickening sound and blood splattered the pale face before him. Despite this, Phoenix didn't even flinch, and as Miles stood with his back now to the shower stall, the damage began to repair itself right before his eyes. He barely had any time to register this before Phoenix turned and seized him by the throat, eyes suddenly alight with anger and excitement. Miles knew the man was more than strong enough to merely flex his hand and crush his windpipe, but that was not what awaited him.

Before he could conceive of what had happened, Miles was on his back on the couch with Phoenix over him, still choking him. The towel was nowhere to be found, but in his frantic struggle to claw that hand away and breathe, he couldn't worry about that. Phoenix knelt between his legs and leaned over him, a vicious snarl on his lips. "You _do NOT_ resist me! You are _MINE!_ "

Just as darkness began to form at the edges of his vision, the pressure on his throat was lifted and Miles took in a sharp gasp, followed by another and another. These three breaths were all he could get, however, as Phoenix leaned in the rest of the way to capture his mouth in a significantly rougher kiss. Miles had the other man's tongue forced into his mouth, and though he bit down on it, there was no reaction. In the midst of the kiss, Phoenix's fangs abruptly extended, piercing into Miles' bottom lip to elicit a muffled, pained cry from him.

Hands against the black cloth over Phoenix's shoulders, Miles tried to push him away; the undead man didn't seem to feel it. His strength was nothing in comparison, and each attempt to resist only reinforced how helpless he really was.

Even Phoenix pulling back from the kiss was rough and left long cuts on Miles' lip. Blood was seeping from it, and Phoenix leaned down again to take that lip into his mouth and suck on it, a low growl rumbling in his chest at the taste of the substance he enjoyed so much. He only relinquished the lip when the bleeding had stopped, but Miles knew this had only just begun.

"Please… d-don't do this…" he heard himself begging as he stared up into those wild, inhuman eyes that he no longer recognized. "Wright, please…" He grunted as he was roughly seized between the legs, a brief grope meant only to make a point as the man looming over him smirked. That freezing hand then traveled downward, causing Miles to rapidly shake his head in protest. One of his legs was held up and to the side, out of the way to open him up to the unwanted ministrations.

Miles gritted his teeth against the feel of those fingers probing him, searching for and prodding at his entrance. He reached down to try and wrench that hand away, and at last Phoenix decided handling him was too difficult in this position. He was roughly flipped over onto his stomach and draped over the arm of the couch, Phoenix now kneeling behind him, still between his legs. One hand pressed on his back, keeping him pinned while the other returned to its work. Miles tried to push back against the hand holding him down, then tried to pull himself forward over the arm of the couch to drop to the floor, but he was being held too firmly.

He took in a sharp gasp as he felt the first intrusion and squeezed his eyes shut against the uncomfortable pressure. It was dry, but Phoenix didn't seem to care in the slightest. He knew now that this was going to hurt so much more than he'd originally feared, and he found himself wishing he would go numb again, as he had the first time. That had been brought on by not only pure terror, but utter shock and disbelief that his mind could not reconcile. Now, all he had was the fear, and it wasn't enough to allow him such an escape. He was forced to endure as a second finger was forced into him, jabbing, tearing, stretching the muscles that were putting up as much resistance as he himself was, and just as uselessly. He almost wished his body would stop fighting as involuntary whimpers of pain began issuing from him.

He should have been able to feel relief when those fingers were pulled out, but as Phoenix shifted behind him, he knew the worst was yet to come. He looked back to see the other man undoing his pants and pushing them down enough to free himself; he was fully erect. Miles had to turn away, unable to stop the single sob that shook him as he felt Phoenix lay over him, pressing his arousal against his captive's backside, hard.

"Beg," he heard Phoenix growl right by his ear.

Beg? Was he expected to _ask_ for this? No! "N-no! W-wright, s-stop… D-don't—"

He could not have contained the scream that burst from him as the other man tore his way in, forcing himself deeper and deeper, past all the taut muscle and despite the friction. The white-hot flash of pain knifed through his entire body, and for a brief moment, he thought he might get the mercy of unconsciousness.

No such luck.

Powerful hands gripped his waist as powerful hips slammed against him over and over again, a lust that had no regard for the agony and fragility of its victim. The pain was excruciating and constant, overwhelming his senses to the point where Miles could no longer feel each individual thrust. It was when blood began to ease the friction that he knew this was going to kill him. This creature atop him was too strong, too fast, too tireless for him to survive.

Somewhere amidst his world of agony, he felt fangs sink into his neck, heard the delighted purring of an enraptured monster. He could hear himself screaming as if on another plane, at the very edge of his awareness and far beyond his control. He had absolutely no method of discerning for how long his torture lasted, but by the end of it, his vision was growing darker and his screams would no longer come out as anything more than hoarse, mewling cries. Blood ran from his neck and between his legs, and he was certain some of his bones had been broken by the jarring impact of each and every thrust of his captor's hips.

His eyes fell shut for what seemed like only a moment, and when they fluttered open again, he was on his back. Phoenix was still over him, and… everything was still so dark… and Phoenix had blood streaming down his cheeks like tears… and he was saying something…

"Drink, Miles. Dammit, drink! God… please… don't you fucking die on me… Drink! I'm so sorry… God, I'm so sorry…"

Something was against his lips, pushing them apart. Something cold and extremely bitter dripped onto his tongue and he gagged, reflexively trying to spit it out. A whine of protest sounded in his throat and he tried to turn his head away, but he could barely move. His eyelids felt too heavy to keep open, and he had to close them, feeling the world fade when he did so.

"Miles! Look at me!"

That shout and the horrified desperation in it made his eyes snap open, and suddenly his gaze was locked with Phoenix's stunning blue eyes. He was being drawn in, and couldn't look away, couldn't let his eyelids fall shut again, as heavy as they felt. For the second time, it seemed like his soul was being drawn out and into Phoenix's eyes, sucked in and trapped.

"Miles."

The voice was back again, all around him and inside of him.

"Drink. You have to drink this, and all the pain will go away. I promise it will all end. All you have to do is drink this."

More of that cold, horribly bitter liquid dripped onto his tongue, but this time he didn't try to spit it back up. He swallowed the drops, closing his lips around whatever was secreting the liquid. It felt and tasted like cold flesh, and he recognized the taste of bitter blood he had woken with twice before. Was this the source of that taste? Was this the medicine that made the pain go away and the wounds heal?

"Very good, Miles," the voice praised him. "Very good. Keep going. Keep drinking. It will all be okay. You won't hurt anymore… I'm so sorry…"

He did as the voice said and kept drinking, lightly sucking the viscous fluid from its source until no more would come out. The source was removed from his mouth and he saw Phoenix's hand, slick with his saliva. He realized only then that his gaze was no longer locked, and a sudden wave of terror came over him, obliterating the momentary calm.

The pain was ebbing away, but his panic was in full swing. His heart was pounding and he was breathing far too quickly, bringing the darkness back to his vision. The room rocked and spun like a sailboat in a hurricane, threatening to make him vomit. It only got worse when he realized he was actually moving, or rather, being moved. He was far too disoriented to tell where he was taken, but he could feel something thick and soft wrapped around him tightly like a cocoon, and then he was lying on his back again, and something else was piled on top of him, and then there was a weight on him, against him…

"Shh… Calm down… Take deep breaths… It's over… It's over… I'm so sorry…"

That voice was so familiar, but it didn't belong to the monster. It was Phoenix Wright's voice, so full of worry and fear and sadness and regret. It didn't seem to belong, but he wanted to listen to it. All that surrounded him was horror, so if something didn't belong, did it not logically mean he should grasp for it.

It was Phoenix… He loved Phoenix… Phoenix had been the only close friend he'd ever had, especially in his adult life… Phoenix had defended him when no one else would… Phoenix had understood the truth he himself had come to realize during his year-long disappearance… He trusted Phoenix with his life…

"Take a deep breath…"

Miles took a deep, tremulous breath.

"Let it out slowly."

Miles expelled the breath slowly, letting it take some of the panic with it.

"Another deep breath in."

He drew more oxygen into his lungs, letting it go deep and fill his chest.

"Now, slowly let it out."

He let go of the air and even more of the fear.

"One more time."

As the third breath left his lungs, his heart's pace had slowed considerably and he no longer felt the need to gasp for air. The room was coming back into focus, and he could see that he was in his bedroom, lying on the bed beneath the comforter and top sheet, encircled in a heavy bathrobe that had simply been wrapped around him without his arms through the sleeves, making it impossible for him to move.

Beside him, an arm over him and peering down at him was the pale, blood-streaked face of Phoenix Wright's corpse. Now, as their eyes met, Miles realized the true magnitude of the change he had just witnessed. The eyes were different than they had been only… however long ago he'd been pinned naked to the couch and violated. They looked almost human now, so very familiar, and they were filled with pain.

"…I tried, Miles… I really did…"

Phoenix sounded like he was crying. In that moment, something he'd been told the day before came back to him: Phoenix had said that he now _cried blood._

"I never meant for this to happen to you… You don't deserve this… All I wanted was… for you to know that I was…" He stopped, and he didn't seem to be able to find the words to finish that sentence, so he went onto the next. "…I just didn't want you to have to search for me any longer…"

He couldn't take anymore. Miles shut his eyes and let his head drop to the side, desperately bidding sleep rescue him from this. His head was throbbing, and not all of the pain had yet faded. Fortunately, his body and mind were in agreement, and he could feel himself slipping away as he heard a faint, anguished whisper against his ear.

"…I've always loved you… I never meant to destroy you…"


	6. Chapter 5

**Embrace the Night - Chapter 5**

Two weeks had gone by, and hope felt more like denial with each passing day.

Miles glanced up at the clock once again – five minutes at the most. Like every evening, he sat waiting in dread, wondering if tonight the beast would return in earnest. Ever since that brutal rape, Phoenix had been more subdued, though no less intimidating. It was as if he had realized – even down to his savage nature – that he could so easily kill his prey if he was not more careful.

…Or perhaps he had actually felt some emotional shock at what he had done, and it had hardened his resolve.

Miles pressed index and middle fingers to each of his temples and squeezed, hating this debate he kept having with himself. He wanted to believe that Phoenix really was still in there somewhere, but at the same time, that thought horrified him. To think that – in any form – Phoenix could do such things to _ anyone _was sickening and unreal. Then, he would tell himself that – no – Phoenix had never been capable of such things, and it was only his new nature that made him lust to cause such suffering. Then, he would scold himself for making excuses on behalf of his captor, that feeling such pity was a sign of a psychological condition to which he refused to allow himself to surrender.

Still… He was certain that Phoenix had wept that night. He'd barely spoken a word to his captor since then, and certainly had asked no questions. Phoenix hadn't prompted him to say much for the most part, only insisting he answer simple questions. Mostly, it was Phoenix who spoke, but never about anything of substance. He would still stare, leer, and was extremely invasive of the personal bubble Miles had always kept around himself, the space he did not allow anyone to enter. Here, he was powerless to stop it, and so the best he could do was just be as resentful and unreachable as possible.

It was getting difficult.

The prosecutor twitched involuntarily as he heard the door open. The all-too-familiar feeling of approaching doom in the form of footsteps filled him and he sat stiffly, staring at the book on the table before him. The scent of the cologne Phoenix used to cover up the musty smell of the cellar he slept in reached him just before the cushion shifted beneath him and he felt an arm snake around his waist.

The key clinked against the lock, then slid in and opened it. The collar was drawn away from his neck, transferring him from the hold of the chain to the hold of his captor. He sat rigid as a board as Phoenix tugged him closer so that he was half sitting in the undead man's lap. As familiar as this was becoming, Miles could not stop his heart from beating faster and his breath from quickening in fearful anticipation of the pain. He winced when he heard Phoenix's fangs extend right by his ear, then clenched his jaw when he felt Phoenix's mouth on his neck.

A gasp and clipped cry escaped him as he was bitten, a reaction he simply could not contain. The arm around his waist tightened to pull him closer in a possessive embrace as the sucking pressure began. The creature purred as it nursed on his life essence, and he knew better than to move a muscle, not that doing so would have been at all easy; the bite always seemed to nearly paralyze him completely.

Then, he felt something new. With his free hand, Phoenix began to lightly rub Miles upper arm, a slow up-and-down along the length of his bicep. Miles instantly knew it was meant to be a soothing gesture, and he was horrified to realize that the combination of the rubbing and the gentle sucking pressure was actually making him relax. He had grown accustomed to the feeling of being fed from, and with this added sensation, his muscles were growing less rigid.

"S-stop that." He didn't want to relax, didn't want to actually feel comfortable like this. Both Phoenix's tongue and hand stilled briefly, a little surprised at hearing his captive speak. He then resumed feeding, but his hand stayed still, simply resting over Miles' elbow. To the prosecutor's relief, the feeding didn't last as long as usual, and Phoenix carefully drew his fangs out to begin licking the wound until it stopped seeping blood.

Phoenix shifted and let Miles slide off his lap back to the couch, releasing him from that embrace and scooting to the next cushion over. Miles didn't look over, but he was acutely aware of those piercing blue eyes roving over him. "Why did you stop me?" he heard Phoenix ask. "It was helping."

"Helping?" Miles repeated indignantly. "Helping what?"

"Helping you relax," Phoenix elaborated. "I understand you're miserable, but you don't have to actively do things to make this worse for yourself."

Miles gritted his teeth. How could he admit to Phoenix that he was struggling against actually starting to hate all of this less? "Why the hell do you care whether or not I am miserable? My state of mind has no bearing on your ability to take whatever you wish from me."

"Miles…" Phoenix reached over and took one of his hands, drawing it toward himself, "believe it or not, I still feel. I still have the capacity to care. I… wasn't sure about it at first, but what I've done to you is…" He paused, swallowing hard and tightening his grip just a little. "…You can't imagine the guilt. You have no idea what it's like… It's as if there are two different people in my head, pulling strings in a constant tug-of-war. One is me, as I used to be, and the other is… something out of a horror story, something with no compassion and no regard for human suffering."

Miles still didn't look at him, nor did he try to yank his hand back, as much as he wanted to; making such a movement would probably cause Phoenix to drag him back into his lap. "You're wasting your time," he muttered, staring down at the floor. "You aren't going to make me accept my imprisonment by telling me how difficult things are for you. If you expect me to believe you actually have any regard for my well-being beyond keeping me alive, you are—"

He stopped speaking instantly when he felt a cold hand grasp his chin and turn his head to force him to look at the man beside him. Suddenly, his gaze was locked on Phoenix's intense blue eyes, and he was being drawn in without any hope of resistance. He was dragged out of the room and into the void, like sliding on his back into an endless pool of black water where the only thing keeping him alive and oriented were those eyes.

"Do you have any idea what I could do to you right now, Miles?"

…And that voice filled the void around and within him, saving him from drowning or falling.

"Your mind could belong to me. I could make you do anything, say anything, believe, think, or feel anything. I could make you believe you want this, that you want to be here and that you desperately need to please me. I could make you believe you worship me and desire only to serve me as my willing slave. I could make you forget all about who you are and the life you had before."

Miles took in a sharp breath as he was abruptly released from the hypnotic stare; it felt like he'd fallen backward a few feet, giving him a sickening swooping feeling in his stomach. He blinked a few times, trying to figure out whether he'd just imagined the words now ringing in his head or not.

"But I'm not going to do that to you." Phoenix was still holding his chin and gazing him directly in the eyes, but Miles could have averted his own gaze if he so chose. He didn't. "Bending and twisting your mind to my will in any way would affect so much more. I've always valued your mind, admired you for it. It's your most powerful weapon, and I know you view it as your most valuable asset. If I wanted to stop you from fighting and make you enjoy this, I could do it so very easily, but it would destroy who you are… I could never bring myself to do that… not even to end your suffering… because I know that would be worse than anything I've done to you…"

Until Miles exhaled, he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. Was that true? Could Phoenix actually just… warp and twist and mold the way someone thought? Was it so easy, and did it really and truly work?

"I've hypnotized you twice before," Phoenix informed him. "Both times were simply to get you to calm down, or to accept my blood so you wouldn't die. If I really didn't care about your mental state, about… giving you what little freedom I can, I would use it a lot more to make this easier for the both of us." Phoenix moved his hand to lightly caress Miles' cheek, and then let it fall away.

The prosecutor's mind was racing, and he quailed when he realized that he was actually considering asking Phoenix to just hypnotize him and make all of the pain and fear melt away. No, he couldn't allow his mind to be compromised in such a way! Phoenix was correct: that would be a violation worse than the rapes. Still… "And… did you not think to just… hypnotize me into never telling anyone what I discovered about you, or to forget entirely, so that I could go on with my life…?" He wasn't sure he would have been all right with that, either, but… was it worse than being trapped here for however long he survived?

Phoenix slowly shook his head. "Even that would cause problems. Remind me again, Edgeworth, what's your creed? What is your most important ideal?"

Miles had no need to answer the question and continue on this train of logic, because he realized its destination with a sinking feeling. "…To unearth the truth… at all costs…"

Phoenix gave him a single nod, and with a surge of anger, Miles felt like he was being given a lesson, as if he was a student again. "You would have wanted to know what happened to you that night, and there would most certainly be holes in your memory even if I planted some false recollections in your head. Then, if I let you remember but ordered you not to tell anyone, I'm willing to bet that would drive you mad. You would know what happened to me… and what I did to you, but you would never be able to speak about it in any way."

…And Miles didn't suppose just hypnotizing the past two weeks right out of his memory would do anything good for his sanity either. He turned away from Phoenix and put an arm across his middle, a self-embrace that never really gave him the security he sought. "Wright… What are you trying to prove by telling me this?"

Phoenix sighed heavily and rested his elbows on his knees. "I guess I'm just… desperately wishing I could fix this somehow. Miles, I…"

"Just stop it, Wright!" Miles was shocked at his own sudden outburst as he turned on the other man with a glare of hurt and rage, fists clenched. "I am not so naïve as to accept that… that being turned into this… this creature has suddenly made you want to… want to violate me! If you truly do still have your mind, then it was a decision _ you _made! It was an action _ you _carried out! Or, have you come to confess attacking, raping, and abducting every random person you happen to come across?!"

Phoenix did not back down from the glare, but he saw the man tense up. "No… Miles, listen… I…" He began, pausing to brace himself and gather his words. "In life, I wanted you. I really did. I cared a lot about you, considered you a good friend, but… I wanted more. I was in love with you, and while… it was definitely an emotional thing, I was… _ very _attracted to you… physically."

Miles felt like his heart was being squeezed in a vice and would paint the inside of his ribcage at any moment.

"But I swear to… to God or the Spirits of the Dead or whatever is out there that I _ never _wanted to hurt you, especially not like this!" Had the situation been different, Miles might have wondered at how Phoenix wasn't blushing as he spilled such private thoughts to their subject. "Yes, I will admit to… to fantasizing about being with you in every way, but _ never _against your will. I know that doesn't change what… what I've done now, but _ please _believe that I am putting _ every _ounce of strength and resolve I have into stopping myself from hurting you like that again."

Miles became aware that he was trembling. "So what you are attempting to tell me is that… you have to _ try _not to _ rape _me? Is that… supposed to be a comfort somehow?" He couldn't even believe he was having this conversation, and while looking into the face of Phoenix Wright, of all people.

He saw something flash in Phoenix's eyes, and it made him recoil. "What I'm trying to tell you is that I am fighting with everything I have to keep from hurting you again, because I still care about you! I'm… I'm not the monster that attacked you on the street, or who… nearly killed you twice since then. I'm fighting that monster with everything I have! And… I'm doing it because I'm afraid of what will happen to you if I don't…"

Miles could now feel his lower lip quiver, and he was desperately trying to stop what he knew was coming.

"Miles… Look at me.. Can't you tell it's me? You remember me… Phoenix Wright…"

Miles couldn't stop himself; he turned to face the other man again, staring into those eyes that were showing so much more emotion than he'd seen in them since arriving here. They looked… so familiar, almost as if they'd never changed. It was Phoenix Wright: optimistic and idealistic, wearing his heart on his sleeve, stalwart in his mission to protect anyone in need, eternally loyal, the best friend he'd ever had, the only man he'd ever…

Miles had to turn away. He drew his knees up to his chest and curled up, feeling the breakdown bulrush and trample him. As steadfast as Phoenix seemed to be in preserving Miles' mind, the prosecutor was certain it was a futile gesture. He was beginning to believe he was just as torn in two as Phoenix claimed to be. He buried his face in his arms as the tears and sobs overcame him, flooding right over his protective walls he kept around himself at all times. His logical side, his pride, and his self-respect were determined to hate and resent this man, to never forgive him for what he'd done and revel in how much he despised the hopeless situation in which he had been cast.

…And then there was just Miles Edgeworth, the man, the human, the frightened boy that had not known love in any form since the age of nine. That part at the very core, behind the concrete walls and beneath the layers of solid ice, wanted to fall into Phoenix's arms and profess that he too had been in love, that he believed every word the former defense attorney said, and that he would help him to overcome the vicious monster inside of him, no matter how much it hurt. What was he supposed to do? Which was he supposed to heed? Could he even choose one path and betray a part of himself so overtly?

He felt hands on his shoulders, drawing him in. He was pulled from lying against the arm of the couch to lying against the man beside him, head resting against the black cloth over a strong chest, powerful arms encircling him. In his head, Prosecutor Edgeworth screamed in rage and humiliation, while Miles Edgeworth melted into the embrace and wept freely. He was being held by a man he both hated and loved so fiercely, a man who brought him heart-stopping terror and a comfort he never thought he could experience after all he had seen and endured in his life.

"The night I showed myself to you… I thought that if there was anyone who could give me the motivation I needed to control my nature, it would be you. I just… didn't realize it would take doing what I've done to you to find the strength. Now… I'm afraid it's far too late, that there's no chance to… undo the damage I've done."

Was it? Surely, it was… What sort of person could forgive and forget what he'd been put through these past two weeks? How little self-respect did it take? Why did he find himself wanting to? Why wasn't he trying to extract himself from his predator's grasp? Had he truly been weakened this much? Was he breaking?

"…I want to set you free… even if it means I'll never see you again, but I… don't know how. There are only two ways… One would destroy who you are, and the other… is probably impossible."

Two ways? Phoenix had only mentioned one way before, but perhaps he had already been ruling out the possibility of hypnosis. Still, there was another way…

Somehow, to hear Phoenix pass off the only remaining solution to a problem as impossible created a discord within the prosecutor. It wasn't right… It wasn't Wright… He would attempt it. No, he would _ succeed _at it. Phoenix never failed when it was important, and if his words were to be believed, he found this matter to be of the utmost importance.

"…what is impossible...?" His voice was nothing more than a whisper, muffled against Phoenix's tear-soaked shirt. Without his superhuman hearing, the undead man might not have picked up on the question, and since he did not say anything for a long time, Miles began to wonder if he had actually missed it. He wasn't going to repeat himself, so if the silence lingered, he wouldn't break it.

"…You would have to trust me…"

…What?

Miles stilled, stunned to the point where even his sobbing stopped.

"…You would have to trust me implicitly, and… in that way, I would be able to trust you. We would form a bond - a bond stronger and more intimate than any between humans, and then… for as long as you lived… you would be bound to me. In that way… I could let you go, because I would know that you would never betray that trust - that you would never want to…"

As intelligent and quick-to-learn as the prosecutor may have been, he was having difficulty even beginning to wrap his mind around this concept. Trust? A bond? Was that all it took – just an emotional connection? It sounded so simple yet far too abstract to be relied upon for something important.

…And yet, for him, it was not at all simple. Phoenix had called the option impossible, and Miles was inclined to agree with him. How could he ever come to trust this man after what had been done to him, after Phoenix himself had admitted that he could barely control himself? Mere weeks ago, he would have readily trusted Phoenix Wright with his life, but that now seemed a world away, a lifetime ago.

The hand resting between his shoulder blades moved up to cover the back of his head, keeping it in place against Phoenix's chest, though not forcefully. "So… Yeah… There's that hope I told you about before. I didn't want to say anything before because… I thought you might get the idea to just pretend to trust me in order to escape, but… I talked to Alastair about it, and he said that wasn't possible to do. I just wish… Well, I guess I've already made my point. I can't even say I'm sorry because that would be so inadequate it would be insulting. I will forever regret what I've done… and I have forever to live with it. That's the best I can do for an apology."

Miles could practically feel his mind tearing itself apart through conflict, and in the meantime, he was allowing himself to be held so affectionately, listening to Phoenix's voice. He realized he was trying to listen for a heartbeat, which he could not find. Of course… This was Phoenix's corpse, not Phoenix.

Yet… it was Phoenix… in a way… More so now than it had been since his arrival; he was sure of that… unless this was all a clever deception.

Still… the sight of those eyes came into his thoughts, each pair – the same pair, but not – burned eternally into his psyche. They were set into the same face, but were so drastically different that the idea of them belonging to the same man seemed unfathomable. A voice somewhere inside of him asked if he could really hold one accountable for the actions of the other, but another argued vehemently that Phoenix was – in fact – one person and must be held accountable for his lack of self-control, as anyone would be.

When silence had lingered for an immeasurable amount of time, Miles realized that he had not spoken at all in response to anything Phoenix had been saying while holding him, sans that single question. He had questions and comments buzzing around in his tired brain, but none of them did he feel like voicing at present. All he truly felt like doing at the moment was falling asleep, shutting all of this out for a little while. Unfortunately, as active as his mind was, he doubted that was going to happen.

Miles' breath caught in his throat when Phoenix stood up, still carrying him in his curled position as if he was a sleeping child and weighed no more than that. He tensed up, his body beginning to shake with anticipation at what the man's intentions might be, yet he didn't look up or even open his eyes. The movement was at a slow pace, a normal walking speed instead of a sudden rush that the human eye would not even be able to follow effectively.

He felt his back touch the mattress of his bed, his head lowered gently to the pillow, and the comforter pulled over him. He briefly wondered if Phoenix thought he'd fallen asleep, but that was unlikely. He'd tried to deceive the undead man into thinking him asleep before, and that had not worked. No, Phoenix knew he was awake, but was laying him down anyway.

Then came the surge of fear. Was Phoenix about to give into his lust again? No… No, he'd pulled the blanket over top of him; that didn't indicate any intent to do anything at all. He flinched in slight surprise when he felt Phoenix touch his face, but then forced himself to stay calm and not provoke anything. That hand slowly, gently brushed back his disheveled bangs, smoothing them over his temples then tracing fingers through the hair at the side of his head.

"…I'm sorry that I don't know how to fix this, to make this better. If I did, please believe I would do anything."

"…I believe you…"

He hadn't really thought about it before saying it, but he knew as the word left his barely parted lips that they were true. As hurt, angry, humiliated, and frightened as he was, and even though he wasn't sure if he could ever forgive the man standing over him, he believed those words beyond a shadow of a doubt. What did that mean? If he could trust such a statement, what else could he believe? How was he supposed to feel now? That last question had been plaguing him all through this night's conversation, and he still had no answer. The tables were turning; he knew that much, but what he didn't know was whether or not he should be allowing it to happen.

"I love you, Miles. With whatever humanity I have left, I love you. It's not enough, I know, but it's the truth. I know how valuable the truth is to you, so there's the truth I have to offer. I know it won't change anything, but you deserve to hear it regardless."

With that, he heard the sound of Phoenix's footsteps leaving his side, heavy, steady drum beats against the hardwood floor, echoing all around him. The outer door opened and then – though it was closed with only the necessary amount of force – it shut like a clap of thunder.

He was alone. The silence pressed in around him, smothering him. For the first time since arriving here, solitude did not bring with it a sense of temporary relief. Phoenix had given him so much more to think about, so many more elements to add to the boiling crucible in his mind, and now he was alone with it.

He brought a trembling hand to the side of his neck where he could feel the small puncture wounds, healing over much more quickly than they normally would. It was the blood he was made to drink – Phoenix's blood. It seemed to give him some of the regenerative capacity of a vampire, allowing him to more easily recover from what was done to him and in a much shorter span of time. However, it wasn't the progress of the healing that caught his attention; it was that he could touch the wounds at all. The metal band that was always locked around his neck when Phoenix left him alone was not present.

Miles shivered and curled up into himself. He wanted to give up, to give in, to surrender and suffer no longer. What point did resistance serve? What good could pride do for him in this place?


	7. Chapter 6

((**AN: **My apologies for the wait, everyone. A bunch of shit happened and uprooted my life, but things have calmed down and I started playing the trilogy re-release. So, finally in the mood to write again and I'm back to at least get this one finished up.))

**Embrace the Night - Chapter 6**

His mind felt as foggy as the bathroom mirror before which he stood, towel around his waist, hair wet and disheveled.

With slow movements, the prosecutor took the hand towel from the ring where it hung and wiped off the reflective glass, immediately regretting his decision to do so. He stood there, staring at his own image: he was too pale and had lost at least fifteen pounds in the past two weeks. He almost always had dark circles beneath his eyes, but they were much heavier than usual, giving his normally sharp grays a hallow look.

Funny… He was starting to look as much a corpse as his captor.

For what had to be the hundredth time since he'd entered the bathroom to shower, Miles glanced toward the door: it was still closed and locked. As hazy and disconnected as he felt, he still had just enough awareness to be paranoid. With trembling fingers that seemed to have lost all their dexterity, he picked up the first article of clothing and released his grip on the towel, simply letting it fall to the tiles below.

The door was still closed and locked.

He drew on the undergarments, then the black socks, every word of his conversation with Phoenix earlier that night playing on random in his head. He'd tried to sleep, but he had failed and just stumbled out of bed to get a shower in while he was alone and unchained. He was so trapped in his mind and the fierce and confusing debate raging within that the world around him was mostly a dull and numb haze. It was a familiar feeling, and he hated it.

The door was still closed and locked.

Miles picked up the dark gray dress pants and mechanically pulled them on, feeling at least a tiny measure of relief with each article he donned, even if it really wouldn't save him should the beast return. He slid the black leather belt around his waist and clasped it, requiring the accessory thanks to his rapid weight loss.

The door was still closed and locked.

Next was a black button-down with long sleeves, and he was certain it took him at least a full minute to do up all the buttons, barely paying attention to what he was doing. Surely, after all he'd said, Phoenix wouldn't barge in on him like that again… wouldn't do that to him again… No, there was no way to be certain about that, because – whatever Phoenix's intentions were – he had a vicious, savage side to him that he could scarcely control.

The door was still closed and locked.

At last came the jacket, the same dark gray as the trousers. It was far too hot and humid in the bathroom for this garb, but he didn't really notice. It was an automatic process for him to smooth out all the wrinkles in the jacket and ensure the collar lay flat and even, and then he just stood there, staring once again.

The door was still closed and locked, and he supposed that – if it opened now – he would at least be decent. His hair was still a mess, but he honestly didn't feel like sorting it out. Normally, he wished to look his best no matter how stressed out or depressed he felt; it was his outward appearance that was important to others after all. However, in this place, it didn't matter in the slightest. He looked dreadful, and taking time to style his hair wasn't going to fix that.

It was at this thought that Miles realized the true extent of the damage. The last time he'd been this apathetic and hopeless was the weeks following his suicide note and subsequent disappearance. He'd spent days locked in a hotel room, hiding from the world and neglecting the image he portrayed for it, contemplating carrying out the action which his note had implied. He had come out of that slump, of course, but his prison back then had been figurative, created by years of misguidance and crushing guilt.

This prison was real, and he feared it would be what finally broke him.

As he picked up a razor and shaving cream – figuring he should at least care enough to keep up this much maintenance – he wondered if he would be fairing better if this place had been a proper prison. If nothing else, he would know how he should be feeling in a proper prison: fear, anger, hatred, misery, and loss. He wouldn't have to contend with this confusion, this uncertainty. Miles Edgeworth hated being uncertain, loathed any lack of understanding on his part. If he could not even sort out his own emotions, how could he ever hope to find truth in the rest of the world?

Although, he supposed he didn't have to worry about that right now: the rest of the world was off-limits to him, so all he had was himself and his own situation. That thought wasn't exactly a comfort, however, and it caused him to think about what chaos his disappearance must be causing. This time around, they had no note; they had his abandoned car with the driver-side door left open, parked on a deserted back road, and his torn, discarded clothing lying in the woods.

Unless, of course, Phoenix had cleaned up after himself; he hadn't felt the need to ask.

Miles set the razor back down on the sink and looked down, noting absently that the front of his shirt was now wet. He should have shaven before putting the shirt on, but he'd been far too preoccupied with covering himself as quickly as possible. Besides, he didn't really care: it was water. It would dry.

At last, with a deep breath to brace himself for something – or someone - that could be waiting right outside, Miles unlocked and opened the bathroom door. Only the empty library was there to greet him, but he didn't feel relief as he stepped over the threshold into the much cooler, drier atmosphere.

It was as he moved farther into the room that voices drifted to him, faint and unintelligible through the heavy study door. He froze mid-stride, and the haze lifted, allowing the full weight of apprehension to nestle deep in his chest. He strained his ears, listening to discern if he knew the voices, even if he could not make out the words. As far as he could tell, he did not recognize any of them, but he distinctly heard two different male voices and a female voice.

They were right outside the door.

His heart galloped straight up into his throat, his breath becoming quick and shallow. He had no idea who they were, and while they could be there to rescue him, they could also be more of those… creatures. Phoenix had mentioned his… Master or Maker or whatever – having some friends present a little over a week ago. As foolish as it was, he had an overwhelming urge to hide. His gaze darted around the room, desperately searching for a suitable place to conceal himself. In the end, he made for the bedroom, and like a child afraid of a thunderstorm – or as if an earthquake woke him up in the middle of the night – he slid under the bed and flattened himself against the wall.

Each passing second felt like an eternity as with baited breath he waited for any sound, and though he'd been expecting it, the sound of the outer door opening made him lurch horribly. What startled him more, however, was that he found himself hoping it was Phoenix entering the study and not the strangers.

His hopes were dashed as a sing-song female voice floated to him from the library. "Here, human, human, human! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Miles curled up in the fetal position, all dignity forgotten as a man's voice reached him. "We can smell you, human! Come out and we promise we'll play nice!"

As they spoke, they were getting closer, and Miles knew that his attempt to hide had been just as foolish as he had predicted. Regardless, he was frozen with terror and was not about to willingly show himself to the monsters invading his holding cell, which only now seemed to have been some kind of twisted sanctuary. Three sets of footsteps were approaching him this time, and all too soon, three pairs of legs were visible standing right beside the bed.

…And then the bed rose up, thick and sturdy wooden frame leaving the floor to rise above the head of a man that looked like something out of Ancient Greek mythology, all tanned skin and knotted muscle. Beside him stood a more averagely-built man wearing Victorian-style clothing, arms folded coolly across his chest.

The other member of the group was suddenly crouching over him, a wicked smile on her would-be attractive young face. She was blond, looking like the type of girl one would see at the mall in a sorority t-shirt. Instead, she wore black leather, and her smile and bright blue eyes held only cruelty.

"Ooo, he's a cutie," she remarked with a giggle before seizing him by the upper arms and dragging him up at lightning speed. The bed was returned to its proper place and he was dropped onto it, flat on his back to stare up at the three of them. "Alastair didn't mention he was cute!"

The black-haired Victorian man furrowed his brow in a slight scowl. "And why would Alastair say a thing like that, especially about a boy?" He had a thick British accent, much more prominent than the hint of one Miles had picked up while growing up in Germany. An indignant little voice in the prosecutor's head protested being referred to as a 'boy', but he was far too petrified to say anything; it seemed an entirely irrelevant point in the shadow of what he was facing.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," the woman purred as she leaned over him, caressing his face with both icy hands. "What's your name, little human?"

Miles said nothing, just staring up at her with wide gray eyes and face almost as pale as hers. Cold hands moved down to the sides of his neck, thumbs trailing over his throat and applying just the tiniest amount of pressure: a subtle threat – or perhaps a promise.

"Perhaps he cannot speak," suggested the Spartan.

The woman giggled. "Let's see about that."

Miles was trying not to look her in the eyes, but she leaned over him further and suddenly he could not look away from them. That all-too-familiar feeling of being trapped and dragged out of his own mind overcame him, and he was powerless to stop it. He was in her grasp, and while he knew what it meant, that fact suddenly had no baring on his thoughts or will.

"What's your name?"

Her voice enveloped him as he stared into eyes as blue as ice, holding the look of the predator he saw occasionally surface in Phoenix's darker eyes. He had no choice - he wanted not – but to do as she said, to answer her question.

"…Miles Edgeworth…"

He was abruptly released from that hold and found himself back on the bed, lying before the three wolves cornering him like the helpless lamb.

"Miles, huh?" The woman gave him that cruel smile that never seemed to leave her violet lips. "That's a fitting name. I like it. Dinner is going to be so much fun tonight…" She leaned forward more, now pressing her chest to his and lowering her face to the side of his neck, taking in a deep breath through her nose. "Mmmm… So good…"

The largest man made a noise of irritation. "Enough, Nina. Let us just drain him and go."

"Ah, ah, ah," objected the other man, holding up an index finger. "I think Nina's got it right. We want to make a point to Alastair, right? Well, since he took his pet with him when he left, we'll just have to settle for his baby's pet. Just draining him and leaving doesn't really send a powerful message."

"Of course it does." The huge man snapped indignantly. "There is no need to draw such things out. We kill him to show we have no fear. No need for such pointless games."

The woman – Nina – snorted. "Just because you don't believe in fun doesn't mean we can't have any. You just go stand over there while we enjoy ourselves, and then you can join in when it's time to eat."

As he listened to them argue over whether or not to torture him before killing him, Miles could feel himself retreating. Not physically, of course, but the pure terror and realization that he was about to die was enough to make him start to dissociate, to flee for the void and abandon his body to these savages. Their voices seemed to fade away, growing quiet and fuzzy until he could no longer understand them. He knew that once he let the numbness take him, he would never feel again, never wake again.

_Father… Mother... If there truly is a life after this… I am coming home…  
><em>  
>Eyes, like wells of churning ice, filled his vision and her voice filled his head, chasing away his defensive numbness with a void of their own.<p>

"Now, don't go to sleep on us, Miles. I don't want you to miss a second of this."

When he dropped back into his own body and the world around him, he was fully alert, to his utter dismay. It was in this moment that he knew not a shred of mercy would be granted him, and after all he had been through at Phoenix's hands, he had never been more terrified than he was now. He was seized by the collar of his shirt and dragged off the bed, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with enough force to jar him. It all happened far too quickly to follow, but when everything slowed down, he found himself with the thick chain anchored above the door wound around him in a confining web, the woman wrapped around him from behind, and the British man standing before him.

"Mmm..." Nina moaned, cold mouth on the side of his neck, licking the skin over the major artery. At the same time, the man before him was busy unfastening his pants, smirking down at their victim's fear. As the man freed himself, Miles tried to turn his face away, the only defiance allowed him in his current position.

However, even that was snatched away. The man seized his jaw and forced him to turn his head back, while at the same time, the woman extended her fangs and bit down hard. He could not stop himself from crying out at the stab of pain, and the man took advantage of his parted lips, forcing himself inside.

Miles gagged as the cold, hard member slid in deep, pushing its way into his throat despite the defensive reflexes. Miles was rigid, paralyzed, and revolted at both the man extorting pleasure from him and the woman eagerly sucking at the burning wound she had ripped open on his neck, her bite having been so much more vicious and messier than any Phoenix had delivered. Their intention was to hurt him, to abuse and torture him, to send a message with the state of his dry, defiled corpse left for Phoenix or Alastair to find. All he coudl do now was shut his eyes, and he was waiting for them to take even that escape away from him.

However, it wasn't a command that caused his eyelids to fly open: it was a sound. Familiar and disturbing, flesh and bone ripping, blood splattering. He found himself staring up at the man violating him, a foot of blood-stained metal protruding from the left side of his chest, his mouth hanging agape, eyes bulging.

Then, that creature began to dissolve, flesh drying and crumbling. He not only saw but tasted the decay into ash, causing him to retch. In seconds, a pile of bloody ashes and Victorian-style clothing lay before him, and he doubled over to vomit on the mess. He didn't have the presence of mind at the moment to realize he'd been released from the grasp of the woman behind him, but her shriek of horror and rage reached him through the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

"GERALD! You... YOU KILLED HIM!"

The next voice that reached his ears was familiar, but so foreign. Never in all the time he had known the man had Miles ever heard Phoenix Wright sound so enraged. The shout was inhuman, a bestial rage making the description 'roar' more appropriate than 'shout' for his tone.

"How DARE you!? Miles is MINE! None of you had ANY RIGHT to lay a FINGER ON HIM! You will DIE FOR THIS!"

Gasping for breath after expelling the contents of his stomach, Miles dared to glance up. There he saw Phoenix standing wild fury burning in his vivid blues, fangs extended, holding a strange weapon in his hands. It looked most similar to a spear, but what wasn't coated in blood appeared to be made of silver, an odd choice of metal for such a weapon. The man was a terrifying sight, but in this moment, Miles was so very grateful to witness it. He would have rushed to Phoenix and the protection he could offer had the chain snaking around him not made moving his arms or legs impossible, trapping him there on his knees.

From his right, he heard a low chuckle and the sound of heavy boots on the floor. The thickly-accented voice of the Greek-looking man drifted to him, significantly more calm than either of the other two. "Put those baby fangs away." The man came into his peripheral, massive arms folded across his chest and a mocking grin resting on his lips. "You are no threat to us, fledgling."

Nina seemed to be struggling to compose herself, forcing a laugh to get past her rage. "Heh... heh heh... Yeah, that's right... You think you can kill us? Kore here is over two thousand years old, and I'm no itty-bitty baby myself. You might have surprised Gerald, but you've got nothing left." She laughed again, this time sounding much more confident and collected. "Besides, even if you were a match for either of us, you're outnumbered, sweetie."

"You never were the brightest girl, Nina, but I did believe you could at least count properly."

He had only heard the voice once before, but the circumstance had burned it into his memory. Miles knew that Alastair had joined them without even looking up to confirm it. The older vampire stepped up beside Phoenix, long flowing black hair cascading over his shoulders, seeming to add to the fluidity of his every move. His eyes were a startling green, and while he appeared to be much more calm than Phoenix, they burned with just as much rage. "I'm not surprised you would sink so low, girl, but Kore... I'm disappointed. I never pegged you for a coward."

The largest man scoffed. "Coward? I prefer it this way. Now I can tear your head off with my own hands, pathetic sympathizer."

At this point, the talk ended. Something - or someone - struck Miles, sending him skidding across the floor to the far wall. A fight erupted, a fight he could scarcely follow thanks to the speed at which each party moved and the stupor into which he'd been sent. He heard shouts, grunts, vicious growls, yelps, and foul swears all flying every which way. He could see enough to discern that Phoenix was fighting with Nina while Alastair and Kore did battle. In only seconds, every piece of furniture in the room had been upturned and broken in some way or another; not even the walls were spared the violence.

It was when he saw Phoenix thrown to the ground that he decided he could no longer watch. Miles closed his eyes and turned his face away in lieu of being able to cover it while his arms were still bound to his sides by the chain. Two weeks prior, he himself had intended to kill Phoenix, but now the idea of watching him die - especially knowing what it would look like - terrified him. Despite all the former defense attorney had done to him, he was now the only thing that stood between him and those monstrous villains that intended to torture and kill him. Well... he and Alastair, but if Phoenix wasn't around, it was likely the latter would just kill him anyway.

Miles cried out in fear and surprise when he felt someone grab him. He was taken from his spot on the floor and out of the room, away from the fighting, and when the movement stopped and he opened his eyes, he found himself out in the hallway beyond his cell. Phoenix was crouching over him, covered in bleeding wounds and looking unsteady. Still, with what appeared little effort, he took hold of the thick chain Miles had tried for hours to break and snapped it in several places, causing the links to unravel and fall away. Miles could move again, in theory, but his body felt like stone.

"Get up," Phoenix ordered, sounding haggard and nearly panicked. "Get up, and run. Get out of here."

Miles just stared up at him, his reeling mind barely able to register the meaning of those words. Forget understanding what was happening, what he was being told to do. Run? Run where? He couldn't leave this place, nor could he outrun these creatures. Was Phoenix serious? Was this a game, a test?

"Dammit, Edgeworth!" Phoenix grabbed him by his upper arms and stood, hoisting the dazed prosecutor up with him and setting him on his feet. "Go! Alastair won't be able to hold them off by himself for much longer! The sun will be up soon, so they won't be able to chase you! Just go!"

Miles continued to stare, opening and closing his mouth a few times before words finally came out. "But... they... won't they just... track me tonight after...?"

"Find a vehicle, a cab or something," Phoenix instructed frantically. "Get as far away from here as you can before sundown and then hide! Go!" Phoenix gave him a shove toward the stairs leading up, causing him to stumble and nearly fall to the floor. A hand on the wall just barely kept him upright, and when he lifted his head to look back over his shoulder, Phoenix was gone.

...And then, he was running, sprinting like his life depended upon it, which it most certainly did. He hadn't the faintest inkling of where he was going and would not be able to retrace his steps later, if he survived that long. It was simply an aimless, mad dash, somehow taking him out of the building, which he took not even the briefest of moments to observe. He would never know what the ground level of Alastair's manor looked like, nor the outside of it. The only thing he saw was what lay ahead of him, and even then he only cared that it was an open space, free of obstacles that might slow him down.

By the light of dawn he flew at speeds he never thought himself capable. He kept running long after his body should have fallen to fatigue, functioning purely on the massive amount of adrenaline created by terror in its truest form. If anyone saw him, he did not see them. If anyone called out to him, he did not hear them. If anyone gave chase, they never caught him.

For the first time in weeks, the California sun touched his face, but he was oblivious to its warmth.


	8. Chapter 7

**Embrace the Night - Chapter 7**

He was alone.

Miles stared up at the ceiling, alone in a house he had not stepped foot inside for three years, lying on a bed he had not used for six. He felt as though he had been caught beneath a steamroller, and he was so thoroughly exhausted that even the task of shifting his position was daunting. Had his very life depended upon his ability to recall from where his journey here had begun, he would have been unable to do it. He knew only that he had been outside of Los Angeles that morning, and he barely had any memory of exactly how he'd reached the city. It had involved running... so much running... and he thought he vaguely recalled hiding in the back of some kind of truck.

True awareness had not returned to him until he stood outside this very house, on the back patio trying to remember which potted plant concealed the spare key. The place had once belonged to his old mentor Manfred von Karma and had passed to Franziska upon his death. Miles himself had lived here for a total of two years: a few weeks when he was a child while the proper legal arrangements were being made for Manfred to foster him outside the country, and the rest after returning to the states at the age of twenty to begin his career. He had visited often, for work-related reasons, even after getting his own place, but after the resolution of the DL-6 incident, he'd had little reason to come here.

Now, it was the closest thing to a haven he could think of. He wasn't sure where he'd found the presence of mind not to run straight to his own home; he supposed that even in blind panic, he still had isome/i measure of coherent thought. He had no idea for how long he would be alone here, how long it would take for those... creatures to track him. He had no doubt that they would do so, and with Wright dead, he was apparently fair game, even for those with respect for their... *laws*.

...Wright was dead...

Miles swallowed hard against the burning in his throat, reminded again of how parched he was. Two weeks ago, he'd been prepared to kill what was left of Phoenix himself, but now... He told himself it was just the knowledge that Phoenix's 'claim' to him kept him safe from other vampires, especially since he was aware of their existence, but he knew that wasn't true. He should have hated Phoenix Wright, been glad he was dead and no longer a threat...

...but he didn't, and he wasn't. He was too exhausted - in every sense of the word - to stop the tears that began to leak from the corners of his eyes. He decided against even trying to summon the will to fight them, and just stared at the ceiling, letting them spill silently. He'd hated the monster, and after all he'd seen and everything that had been said, he had almost completely separated that monster from Wright in his mind. Phoenix had died for him... There was no other way to look at it: Phoenix had ensured Miles had an escape, and then had gone back to continue the fight, to distract their attackers in order to give him time to run, to get outside and into the light of dawn.

Yet, would it really matter in the end? Sure, it might take them some time, but they would eventually track him down to finish the job. Perhaps it would even be at some point before the coming sunrise. Perhaps he had only hours instead of days. He could only hope they ended it quickly. Perhaps the man had lived, the one that had argued for simply killing him and leaving it at that.

With a groan of misery, Miles curled up on his side and half-covered his face with his pillow. Then, what if he did live? What if he had time? What then? He had vanished for over two weeks, and it had probably been obvious he'd been abducted this time around. What was he to tell people? What icould/i he tell people? He could hear questions being fired at him in the voices of everyone he knew, and he had not a single answer for any of them.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body shuddering under the weight of it all. He was no stranger to near constant stress, but the level of it had been so elevated since the night he'd been taken that he was certain he was going to have long-term health effects from this, or at least more psychological damage. He already suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and just as he'd been well on his way to recovering, this had happened.

This time, he'd seen his closest friend become a monster, endured torture at his hands, and then... that friend had died for him... How could he possibly live his life with what he'd seen, what he'd been through, and what he now knew? Perhaps it was for the best that they were hunting him...

He wanted to stop thinking, to stop feeling just for a while, to sleep and not dream. However, something inside of him was constantly reminding him of just how alone he was, reminding him of his loss. He couldn't explain it, but... he just felt... empty, as if he'd left a part of himself behind when he'd fled. It sounded absurd when he thought about it, like something out of a melodramatic poem. Of course he felt a sense of loss! Of course he felt lonely!

But... it wasn't that... This was unfamiliar, physical, almost tangible. He could think of no way to define it, yet he could not shake it. He soon gave up trying to understand and just told himself he was making it more than it was. What mattered was that it was only adding to the feeling of utter misery and hopelessness, and for that he hated it.

An old analog clock ticked the seconds away, the only sound breaking the oppressive silence baring down on him. It was nearly six in the morning and the sun was starting to rise, but he kept his eyes shut tight, far too tired to think of doing anything but lying there and waiting for death to find him.

He was alone with his pain, his fear, and his misery, and the person he would have been most likely to turn to for help and support had brought it upon him, then died and left him to drown in it.

He was alone, utterly and completely alone.

The shriek nearly caused him to instantly lose consciousness.

He'd been wrong; he could still move. Miles sat up as abruptly as if he'd just awakened from a terrible nightmare, gray eyes flying wide only to be squeezed shut again in response to the blinding overhead light.

"Miles Edgeworth!"

iShit.../i

Slowly, he uncovered his eyes and opened them halfway, still shielding them slightly from the offending light. There, in the doorway, stood Franziska von Karma, her hair wet and not yet styled, a blue bathrobe tied loosely around her. She was staring at him with shock and astonishment, which he was now watching gradually morph into rage.

Of course! How could he have been so foolish? Of course she was in town! She would have been the first person they alerted when he went missing and would have jumped on the first flight out of Frankfurt, if for no other reason than to storm the precinct and demand to know who was responsible for 'losing her little brother, AGAIN!'

"W... What...? How...? When...?" She stopped, trying to gather her whits and comprehend the situation, then say something meaningful. It didn't take long. "Miles Edgeworth! Where the HELL have you been!?"

She may have sorted out her thoughts, but he most certainly had not. He felt as though he hadn't stopped reeling since he'd pulled over on the side of the road that night. He lowered his hands to his lap, swallowing again in a feeble attempt to both stall for time and speak properly when he finally thought of something to say.

She didn't give him the chance.

"After what I saw, I fully expected they'd find you washed up naked and dead on the lake shore! But no! You just... You just SHOW UP out of NOWHERE in the middle of the night covered in filth and... Is that blood?! Did you even think to CALL anyone, let ANYONE know you were even ALIVE!? I DEMAND to know where you were and what's happened to you! And then, I'm calling an ambulance, because you look half DEAD, you foolishly foolish-!"

"Franziska! ...Stop... Please..." The sound of his own voice shocked him. He'd had nothing to drink the entire day, which he'd spent running, and he hadn't been particularly healthy before then. His voice was usually so smooth and - as he'd been told by some... overly-forward individuals - quite pleasing to listen to. Now, it was a hoarse rasp that was unrecognizable. He could see that it had startled her as well, but she covered it up quickly. "...I'm sorry... I couldn't call, and I... I did not realize you were here..."

She glared at him and pointed an accusing finger. "So, you intended to hide for even longer, then. Answer my questions, Miles Edgeworth!"

With the ache in every part of his body, he hadn't been paying any particular attention to his migraine, but her shouting was sending a barrage of needles through his skull, making him grip his head in both hands. "I... I can't..." was all he could manage as a wave of nausea caused him to hunch forward.

"You can't what?" the young woman demanded tersely. "You can't tell me? Why?"

"I just... I can't... Not right now..." Of all the people he would have to deal with first... "Please, I... I just need to rest. I will explain later, I swear it." He inwardly kicked himself for making such a promise, but he could think of no other way to appease her.

He couldn't see her, but he could ifeel/i she glower she was leveling at him. He expected her to persist, but instead she huffed. "Fine, but you rest in a hospital where they can babysit you! I have work to do."

"No!" He lifted his head and sat up as straight as possible, horror-stricken at the thought. No way could he go to the hospital! A medical exam would reveal FAR too much, and if he had any hope of survival, it lay in taking this secret to his grave. "No, don't... call anyone," he continued, lowering his voice again. "Please, not even an ambulance. Just... just give me a day, I beg of you, Franziska. I just... I need a day to rest and... collect myself before... before everyone finds out I've made it back." He looked her directly in the eyes as he made his plea, desperately trying to make her understand that this was important and that he was absolutely serious about it.

Franziska stared at him for a time, then took in a deep breath and opened her mouth: he was expecting fire. Instead, she just exhaled and seemed to deflate significantly. She folded her arms and turned her back. "Hmph! Fine, have it your way, you stubborn fool. However, if I come home later and find you dead, I will have Maya Fey channel you and... and... so help me, you will regret it!" With that, she stomped off, leaving the light on, to his dismay.

With another groan, Miles collapsed sideways onto the mattress, curled up in the fetal position. He was at least grateful that dealing with her had not been nearly as difficult as he'd feared; perhaps her compassion had won out this time around. Still, he didn't know that she would actually keep this a secret, that she wouldn't just go to the police or phone an ambulance upon leaving the house. He had to trust her; he had no other choice.

To his surprise, she returned nearly forty-five minutes later with a tray in her arms, fully dressed and looking professional by this point. He watched as she set it down on the nightstand, presenting him with a large breakfast, a pitcher of ice water, a teapot, and a mug. After setting the tray down, she stepped back and put her hands on her hips. "I will return home at noon," she stated, then pointed at him to emphasize her next words. "That food had better be gone by that time. Am I understood?"

Had he been in a better state of mind, he might have laughed. "Yes, Franziska."

"Good." And she was off again, marching out of the room with her usual confident posture and aggressive stride, as if she had not just cooked breakfast for her 'little brother' and brought it to him in bed purely out of true concern for his well-being.

Okay, so perhaps he wasn't entirely alone. He could not share with her what had happened to him or rely on her for emotional support, but she was there for him in her own way, as some others would be.

Oddly enough, that indescribably empty feeling was gone as well, but that seemed... somehow unrelated. Again, he told himself it was his imagination, that it probably was due to just having someone else nearby, someone he knew and trusted.

He was no longer alone. That had to be /

* * *

><p>The basement... It had to be...<p>

Miles placed his hand against the wall to ensure he was balanced as he moved through the dark house; he knew it well enough not to bother with lights, even after all this time. He wasn't feeling nearly as unsteady as he had that morning when he'd risen to take a much-needed shower, but he still hurt everywhere and didn't want to take any chances. He'd eaten the entire breakfast, albeit slowly, and then Franziska had made him both lunch and dinner. He'd drained the entire pitcher of water and some of another, along with two mugs of hot tea. The water alone had done wonders, as he'd probably been quite dehydrated, but he was sure he still needed a lot of sleep. He'd snatched a few hours, but it had been fitful and he had awakened with a scream more than once; he was certain these particular nightmares would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Now, Franziska had retired to her room for the night, and the house was once again dark and quiet, despite it being just after eight o'clock. In that silence, Miles had become aware of... something. He couldn't explain it, and he'd been trying for nearly a half hour to figure out what exactly he was... Feeling? Sensing? Had he just heard something? He couldn't even decide that much.

Whatever it was, it was drawing his attention to the basement door. He felt utterly foolish for following such an unfounded feeling, something so abstract and unknowable, but lying there and dwelling on it was only stressing him out further. So, he had resigned himself to just follow this... feeling... and quell his disturbed mind by finding nothing of note at the end of this blind hunt.

He approached the basement door and lightly grasped the doorknob. He had not been down there since he'd moved out and gathered what he'd had in storage. He remembered the stairs being a bit treacherous and told himself to be very careful while descending in his current condition. If a tumble didn't break his neck, Franziska would.

As the door was seldom used, the hinges creaked when he pulled the door open. He cringed, both at the sound and at how ridiculous it was that he was getting nervous, as if the noise added to some ominous atmosphere his mind was creating. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprise after what had happened to him, but he scolded himself nonetheless. This was not a horror movie; it was real life and he was just going down into the basement of Franziska's house. Okay, so some of Manfred's old things were still kept down here, but that didn't make the place haunted.

Vampires were enough. He didn't need to be thinking about ghosts as well.

The air that wafted through the open door was musty, for while the basement was finished, it hadn't been tended to in a while and had become quite damp. He supposed there was little reason to bother with it, as Franziska only used the place for a month or so in total out of each year. He doubted she had even opened this door once since inheriting the house. The stairs creaked as well as he cautiously descended, feeling along the wall until he found the thin chain that would turn on the overhead light when pulled. He found it and tugged, blinking several times as the darkness before him was abruptly illuminated.

Boxes and old furniture: that was what he found, and all he had truly expected to find. He scanned the room, looking for anything out of place simply to satisfy his paranoia, and then made to pull the chain again and go back upstairs.

Something stopped him, something... in his chest. Yes, that was where it had been centered, from that empty feeling early that morning, to... whatever he was feeling now. It was something foreign, something... heavy? He couldn't define it any further, and was surprised he'd made any progress at all by isolating it to a particular part of his body. Whatever it was, it was telling him not to leave, that he had not yet found what he sought here. How? He didn't know, and Miles Edgeworth positively loathed that he was following such an abstract lead so readily. It wasn't like him, and he could not have even begun to explain it to anyone else and have them think him sane afterward.

Perhaps he wasn't sane. After what he had been through, would it have been any wonder?

With a heavy sigh, he stepped down from the last stair onto the thin carpet below, walking farther into the underground level of the house. It was comprised of a large main room, a second smaller room, and a bathroom; it would have made an acceptable living space had such a thing ever been necessary. He began to wander about, peering around at everything, then starting to look behind things, feeling lost and foolish. For what was he searching, and would he know it if he found it?

It was as he neared the large burgundy sofa at the back of the main room that he froze; he swore he'd felt something, some sort of... movement. Pnaic had become a familiar companion in the past two weeks, and it had returned to him. His heart began to beat faster, his breathing becoming shallow and uneven, every muscle tense and ready to react. The sound of a door slamming shut caused him to wheel around and stare at the stairs, noting that - indeed - the door at the top had closed. Unable to handle this any longer, Miles took a step toward that exit, ready to run despite how sore he was.

Something hit him square in the chest, knocking him backward onto the couch and pushing the air from his lungs in a rush. The impact dazed him and his vision went dark; he feared he would pass out, and no matter how fast his heart raced, it wasn't helping him get a breath.

Through the fog of his panic, he heard the low, menacing growl mere inches above him.


	9. Chapter 8

**Embrace the Night - Chapter 8**

Powerful hands pinned his shoulders to the arm of the couch, knees dug into his thighs, and the world spun dangerously around him. Only after several panicked heartbeats did he manage to pull in a breath, and only after a few desperate gulps of air did his vision begin to clear.

Wide, frightened gray eyes met wild, hungry blues, and the breath he'd been struggle to obtain caught in his throat.

"W-Wright?"

Phoenix looked to be in worse shape than Miles had upon stumbling through the back door the previous night. His clothes were tattered and bloody, and he was sporting numerous nasty-looking wounds that were obviously not healing like they should have. The look in his eyes was terrifying, the look of an injured and starved animal ready to rip into its prey. He already had his fangs out, mouth open and poised to lunge; Miles feared he would go for the throat this time.

Naturally, his instinct was to struggle, to fight, to push and punch and kick and break free and run and scream for help. However, even when panicking, Miles Edgeworth still managed to find his higher reasoning, his logical thought. None of those things would help. He could not fight this man, could never hope to outrun him, and shouting would only put Franziska in danger by drawing her out and to Phoenix's attention. Besides, it was likely that the instant he made any sudden movement or noise, those fangs would rip into him without a shred of mercy.

So, what could he do? He did not have the strength, speed, or the weapon necessary to fight his way out, so what _did_ he have? The answer was clear, and when it came down to it, they was all he ever had: his words and the mind behind them. If it was at all possible to save himself, the only chance open to him would be to talk his way out, to reach down past the blood-thirsty beast to the man beneath, the man that had cared for him, defended him, supported him...

...loved him...

Putting every ounce of effort he could muster into controlling his breathing and keep himself still, Miles peered up at the terrifying monster pinning him down, snarling viciously in his face. He looked into those frenzied blue eyes and spoke, doing his best to keep his voice calm and level, but unable to keep the tremor from it.

"Wright..." No, that wasn't good enough. "Phoenix... Phoenix, calm down. Stop and... and look at what y-you are about to do."

The growl coming from Phoenix's chest was anything but human, and it only seemed to get louder, like a tiger ready to attack. Miles wanted to avert or close his eyes, to give into the more primal urge to fight and flee, but he reined it in as best he could.

"Phoenix, I... I know you're sitll in there... Just... look at me... Listen to me... You... You d-don't want to do this. You... you know you will regret it if you do. You... s-saved me from those creatures two nights ago. Don't... don't ruin that now... Just... calm down. Think. You can control it. I... I know you can..."

He was starting to ramble, but he kept talking because it seemed to be working. At the very least, it was keeping Phoenix from lunging, and Miles was certain he could hear that growl subsiding. He only stopped speaking after he could no longer hear it and Phoenix's body language seemed less aggressive, though he was still extremely tense. The look in his eyes had softened somewhat, and he closed his mouth to simply stare down at the man beneath him. His position against the couch was uncomfortable and having so much of Phoenix's weight pressed against his thighs was quite painful, but Miles dared not even shift or move a muscle other than those needed to breath.

Phoenix watched him, silent and unmoving for what felt like an eternity. Then, he parted his lips again, his fangs still extended. Slowly, he lowered his head and shoulders, bringing his mouth to the side of Miles' neck. All the effort the prosecutor had put into controlling his breathing was no longer enough as an arm slid underneath his upper back, bringing him up from the couch and against Phoenix's chest. Next, he felt a hand against the back of his head, pushing it down so that his chin rested on Phoenix's shoulder, and he was held there as a cold tongue searched for just the right spot. None of this was done roughly, but Miles still feared what was coming and that Wright might not be able to maintain such control while feeding.

Despite the familiarity of the feeling, Miles still winced and gasped when fangs pierced his flesh and the artery beneath. In contrast to the pain, he felt relief as Phoenix changed his position, moving each leg so that he was instead kneeling between Miles thighs instead of on them to keep him in place. This, however, meant their bodies were closer, touching just enough to where Miles could feel it when - after a few minutes of that rhythmic sucking pressure - Phoenix started becoming aroused. The new fears this brought to life and the sickening physical manifestations of those fears caused a smal whimper to escape him. He kept his lips pressed tightly together, afraid to speak at this point.

The hand behind his head began moving, fingers lightly stroking his hair while the other hand gently squeezed his shoulder. Phoenix was... trying to sooth him, even while feeding on his life fluids. He'd done it once before, but this time, Miles did not protest. He was starting to feel light-headed from the blood-loos, but he merely let his eyes fall shut and tried to keep relatively calm. Trusting Phoenix was his only option right now. His life was in the former defense attorney's hands, and despite the fact that the undead man was the cause of the danger, Miles truly got the sense that he was being as careful as he could.

At last, he felt the fangs retract and the process of lapping up the blood that still seeped out beginning. He was always surprised the wound didn't hurt more when it was all over, and the only reasonable explanation he could think up was that there was some sort of... venom in the bite that numbed the area over time.

He wondered if that was the only effect of the venom...

Phoenix stilled when the bleeding stopped, and for some time, he stayed right where he was and kept silent. Then, at long last, he spoke.

"...Thank you, Miles." His voice was low and quiet, but as it was coming from just below his ear, Miles had no trouble hearing him.

Miles took in a deep breath and swallowed it. "You... didn't exactly give me a choice." He stared at the ceiling, desperately trying to ignore what he felt pressing against his thigh instead of a knee.

Slowly, Phoenix began to draw back, lowering Miles to the couch, mostly. He stayed close, but the living man was no longer pinned. "You could have tried to fight me. You didn't, and I know that took a lot of bravery and resolve. You were right: I never would have forgiven myself if you hadn't reached me..." He averted his gaze, staring off to the side at nothing in particular.

"...How did you find me?" He could think of nothing else to say, so he simply started asking questions, of which he had plenty. To his knowledge, Phoenix had never been aware of this house, so for him to have arrived so quickly - the previous night, it seemed - he must have had another way. Were vampires just that adept at tracking?

"You've had my blood," Phoenix answered in a distant tone, as if that should explain everything. After a few seconds, he seemed to come out of whatever reverie he'd been absorbed in and turned his gaze back down to Miles. "It's complicated and I don't really understand all of it yet, but it lets me... feel you, I guess. I always have a sense of where you are. It's not nearly as strong as that bond I was talking about before, but... it's something I can follow."

Miles drew his lower lip between his teeth, not sure he was comfortable with that. "...And is that why I... knew you were down here?"

Phoenix blinked, now looking intrigued. "Hm? What do you mean?"

Miles turned his face away, shifting slightly as if to curl up defensively, but Phoenix was still far too close to allow that. "Last night, I... I experienced a strange... empty feeling that I cannot explain. I tried to attribute it to... something else, and then it subsided just before dawn, replaced by something else. As it began to get dark this evening, it became more akin to a pull, a guiding feeling that led me down here."

He looked back up at Phoenix, noting that he looked a bit surprised. "Huh..." The undead man raised himself up a bit more, giving Miles more breathing room. "Yeah, I guess that's because of the blood and such as well. I guess you're getting a vague sense of where I am, or at least whether I'm near or not. And... as for the pull, that... uhm... Well, I didn't think that would work if we weren't properly bonded, but I guess you got a weaker version of it."

Miles drew his knees in and scooted back in order to sit up a little, finding a slightly more dignified position. "You didn't think what would work? A weaker version of what?" He needed to know what was happening to him, because it wasn't natural and it was frightening.

Phoenix reached up to rub the back of his own head, looking a bit unsure. "Well, see, the way it was explained to me is that when a vampire and human are bonded, the vampire is... kind of like... the master. No surprise, right? Anyway, when the vampire wants their human to come to them, the human will feel it and be compelled, like tugging on a leash, I guess. It wasn't all explained to me in much detail, so I'm not really sure how different it would be from what you felt, but from what I understand, the human can't resist the pull of the bond for very long."

Miles drew his knees all the way to his chest now, feeling a shiver go through him. So, he had somehow been... tied to this supernatural being by being forced to drink its blood. Wonderful...

"I'm sorry, Miles. I'll... try not to do that to you anymore." At last, Phoenix moved to stand up. His wounds were all healed and he was again moving with the fluid grace of a hunter at his pique, no signs of the near-fatal battle remaining save the state of his clothing. "Anyway, I guess... I guess I should go. I will try not to bother you again... unless you need help getting back upstairs. I think I might have taken a little too much."

Miles stared, bewildered at the implications. "Wait... You are just... leaving me? You're letting me go? But I thought-"

"Alastair died during the fight." Miles could clearly see the pain in his old friend's eyes as he said this, and he felt a pang of sympathy. He didn't really know what kind of bond Maker and Prodigy shared, but he got a glimpse of how much it hurt Phoenix just to say those words. "With him gone, no one else knows about you. If you swear to me you won't tell anyone about what happened, about my kind, I'll leave you be. If you keep it a secret, no one else has to know you know, so they'll have no reason to hunt you or expect me to constantly watch you."

He still had so many fears and reservations, but a little glimmer of hope lit in Miles' chest. "What am I supposed to tell people?" he asked, unable to think up a lie that would satisfy everyone and keep them from prying further or investigating. If there was anything he had learned from his years as a prosecutor, it was that holes could be poked in even the most air-tight lies if one was merely observant enough.

"Tell them nothing." Phoenix had not hesitated for even a moment before answering. "Simply tell them the danger has passed, and refuse to testify any further. They'll have no proof of any crimes you might have been involved in, so they'll have no leverage to force you into talking." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I know it won't be easy, and I'm sorry for that, but... you're life depends on you keeping all of this a secret. Maybe someday that will change, and it might even be in the next couple of years, but this is the way it has to be for now."

Miles' movements were slow and uncoordinated as he moved to swing his legs off the edge of the couch and sit up properly. "What do you mean? How might things change?" He needed to know what hope he had, just like when Phoenix had hinted there was a chance he would not have to spend the rest of his life in captivity.

As Phoenix looked him over, studied him, Miles felt as though those eyes were peering into his very soul. "There was a reason those other vampires attacked you. They weren't just looking for a bit of fun; they were making a statement."

"And?" Miles could feel his heart beating a little faster again, pumping what little blood he had left harder through his veins. Phoenix held up a hand that requested patience before continuing.

"There is a divide among vampire society and has been for many centuries. Some have pretty much shed their humanity and embrace their predatory nature. They view humans as chattel, nothing more than prey. They think we should make ourselves known by basically taking over the world and subjugating humanity. Those three belonged to that group, but Alastair mistakenly thought they were enough on the fence to be persuaded otherwise."

The realization that such a terrible fate had loomed in the shadows for centuries - that at any point, an army of super-human creatures could have emerged and destroyed the way of life everyone knew - was incredibly unsettling. The knowledge that it could _still_ happen was sickening. "And... the other group...?" He was assuming that Phoenix and his maker counted themselves among those who did not believe such things.

"The other major group remembers we were all human once and understands that - while we feed off humans - they aren't just mindless animals without higher reasoning ability. I mean, sure we're stronger, faster, and have keener senses, but becoming a vampire doesn't make you any smarter. It's just the older ones that have had hundreds or thousands of years to learn things that can claim to be more intelligent or wiser than the average human, and that still depends on their personality. Anyway, I probably don't have to sell that position to you, but we believe that our kind should be focusing on finding a way to co-exist. Except for a shrinking sect that wants us to remain in hiding, both groups understand that with modern technology and the way things are advancing, we won't be able to keep ourselves a secret for much longer."

And therein lay his hope, the only chance he had to let the weight of this secret slip from his shoulders. The load had just grown heavier, too, as he now had some insight into a monumentous event that could be lurking just around the corner, something that would shake the entire world. He slumped under that pressure, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "I... cannot see such a revelation ending well for either side, even if your side is victorious..."

"Yeah... I know what you mean, but a change is kinda' inevitable at this point. It's just a matter of when. I know it will be a big mess, but... I'm sort of holding out hope, too. Maybe then I can..." His voice suddenly sounded somewhat choked, and it made Miles lift his head just enough to peer up at the undead man, who was looking away, clearly trying to compose himself. "Never mind. You've got enough to deal with already. Here, let me just... help you back upstairs so you can get some sleep. Then I'll leave you alone."

Miles could think of nothing meaningful to say and no reasonable protest as Phoenix took a hold of his upper arm and drew him to his feet. With that firm grip keeping him steady, Miles slowly ascended to the ground floor and walked back to his temporary bedroom. Phoenix did not relinquish his grip until Miles was safely seated on the bed, trying to recover from the dizziness moving about had brought him. The two men had been silent during this journey, and by this point, Miles was starting to feel as though he should say _something._

"...Thank you..."

"You don't owe me thanks, but... you're welcome anyway." Phoenix too looked as though he wanted to say something, torn between dragging this out or just leaving Miles be.

The prosecutor stared at his hands, which lay in his lap with fingers laced. "...I... I am sorry about your Maker." The words just seemed necessary, so he offered them.

"Heh..." Bitterness could be heard in that short laugh as Phoenix turned his gaze downward and away. "I don't really believe that, but... thanks for the sentiment. I'll get outta' your hair now. Hopefully you won't have to see me every again."

"Where will you go?" Part of him was scolding him for delaying Phoenix's departure, telling him he should be eager to be rid of this creature that had assaulted, raped, captured, and used him. However, as had been the case for days now, that side of him was being overruled, and he still couldn't decide which was more reasonable, which course of action was less based in raw emotion. Both sides had strong feelings and good points alike.

Phoenix raised his chin to look directly at Miles again, his expression inquisitive. "Well, uh... I don't really know. I can't exactly go back to Alastair's place, for a lot of reasons, and I definitely can't go back to my apartment... I'll just have to figure something out. It's not like I really need much; I could just live in a hole in the ground as long as sunlight can't get in. I'll stay in LA for a while, just to make sure no one goes after you, but I'll probably end up leaving eventually. Gotta' get away from here..." He trailed off, yet again trying to hide his pain at having to leave everyone and everything in his life behind without even getting a chance to set his affairs in order.

Miles became very aware of an uncomfortable burning sensation in his chest, rising up into his throat. He didn't want that. Whatever the reason - result of a psychological disorder or not - he did not want Phoenix out of his life forever. Whatever he'd done, Phoenix was still the only person in existence with whom Miles could be open and honest.

And, whatever else he had become, Miles was still in love with Phoenix Wright. He could not deny this or shake it, even as he still feared the new side to that kind, gentle, bright-eyed boy he'd known since childhood.

"I will be returning home within the next couple of days. I... have a basement as well." He kept his head down, dark silver bangs shadowing his eyes, which remained downcast. He couldn't see Phoenix, but he could feel him staring.

"Edgeworth, I..." He paused, reconsidering - or reworking - what he was about to say. "Miles, are you seriously offering me that? Think about it. I'm trying to set you free, because I know you're afraid of me and that you have every reason to be. I don't want you to have to live in constant fear like that."

"I fear part of you..." Miles nearly whispered, admitting this only because he would be a fool not to. "I fear the blood-thirsty and... lustful creature you can become..." He then slowly raised his head, daring to look at Phoenix before continuing. "However, I... do not fear the man that stands before me now. I have no reason to fear him, for he would never intentionally harm me."

Phoenix held his gaze for a long time, searching, processing, considering. Miles waited with baited breath, unsure of how he would react, what he would decide, what would come of this. Entwined fingers clutched at one another as the suspense made him tense more and more with each passing second, and he almost drew back when Phoenix took a sudden step toward him. He resisted the instinct; it would undermine everything he'd just said.

Gently, Phoenix placed a hand against his cheek, cupping his chin and bending slightly at the knees to be closer to Miles' level. "I'm afraid of that creature, too. It's always there. It's always hungry, and it scares me. I'm terrified of what it might do if I let my guard down for even an instant. I'm a danger to you, Miles. I'm a danger to everyone, and I don't think I could bring myself to stay so close to you... I... care about you too much."

"And that is why I make this offer." He spoke only just loud enough to be heard by the man right in front of him. He had never been good at expressing his emotions, having spent so many years learning how to repress them, keep them hidden, as they were a crippling weakness his enemies could exploit. He had to keep telling himself that Phoenix was not an enemy, and that these things needed to be said, whatever the difficulty or cost. "If you could control yourself earlier tonight with the state you were in, I can say with confidence that you have gained control over that bestial nature. If you... care for me, perhaps my presence will... aid you in solidifying that control."

"Why?" Phoenix asked, looking genuinely confused as he let his hand fall away and straightened up. "After what i put you through, why would you want to help me? If you're wrong, you'll be constantly at risk."

"You believe I am being selfless." Miles dropped his chin for the duration of a deep inhale, then raised it again. "You should not give me so much credit, Wright. Despite what that creature has done to me, I still want you in my life. I am the only one with that opportunity, and I wish not to squander it." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "...The world lost one very good man the day you were turned, and it will be bleaker for that loss. This is the only chance I have not to suffer along with it."

Bewilderment had transformed into astonishment as Phoenix stared down at him. His lips were slightly parted, and Miles clearly noted the absence of pronounced canines, reinforcing the fact that he was speaking to Phoenix Wright, not a vicious nocturnal killer. The blue-eyed man was rendered speechless for several seconds, then he started trying to say something, halting before any sound left his lips each time. At last, he gave up.

Miles gasped as he was seized and drawn to his feet. A cold mouth met his before he could even comprehend what was happening, and while the kiss was firm, it was not at all rough or forceful. Every muscle in his body was tense, but after a few short moments, he began consciously trying ot relax. He wasn't entirely comfortable with such affections right now, but he could not proclaim trust and then panic every time Phoenix got near him. He had to trust that this was innocent, that this would stop and go no further.

It did. Slowly, Phoenix drew back and carefully lowered Miles back down to sit on the edge of the bed. When he was sure the prosecutor was steady, he stepped back, reaching up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. "I... I'm sorry... That was out of line. I just... I didn't ever expect to hear you say something like that."

Miles took in a few deep, measured breaths, inwardly talking himself down as best he could. Again, his mind was divided: one part of him relished the idea of such a kiss from Phoenix Wright, while the other was vividly reminded of the hurt and humiliation that had previously followed such an action. This was different, he told himself repeatedly. The kiss had been dry, innocent, merely an expression of overwhelming emotion, _human_ emotion. The insatiable lust of the beast had had nothing to do with it. "It is the truth. I wouldn't have said it otherwise."

"I know..." Phoenix was now staring off into the middle-distance, thoughts racing behind those vivid blues Miles had always found so striking. It took some time before his attention returned and he visibly braced himself. "It might be a terrible idea, but... if you are willing to take the risk of having me nearby, I'm willing to put every ounce of strength I have into keeping myself under control. I mean... as long as you can keep my being there a secret."

Miles let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping as he did so. "As devoted to truth as I have become, i have harbored secrets nearly my entire life. If I could go fifteen years secretly believing I had murdered my own father, I'm certain I can avoid telling people that vampire Phoenix Wright is lurking in my basement."

"Lurking?" And then Phoenix laughed. It was short and somewhat wry, but it seemed to lift some of the tension surrounding them. "I'll try to do as little 'lurking' as possible. I'm not _trying_ to be something out of a horror movie, after all."

Despite the voice inside him that was telling him this was an awful mistake, Miles resolved to follow through with this arrangement. Had he been in better condition and frame of mind, he might have actually mustered a smile for his old friend right then, but he was not at that point yet. It would be a while, but if all went well, he hoped he would eventually get there. Smiles generally did not come easy for him, but if there was anyone who could change that, it was the man standing before him. "Franziska doesn't go down to the basement here; I am certain you can remain here in the meantime." He might have worried that he was putting his sister in danger by proxy, but he was confident that - as long as he was around - Phoenix would leave her be even if he wasn't entirely himself. He couldn't see a couple of days putting Phoenix in a state where he would so easily lose a handle on himself.

Phoenix looked a bit dubious but eventually nodded. "Okay, just... If you change your mind about all of this, I'll understand. I know what I am and what I could do. I won't resent you if you... decide it's too much to live with." He fell silent for a time, then stepped away and turned. "I should let you rest. I guess you'll know where to find me if you need something. Just... make sure you eat well tomorrow. I feel bad for setting your recovery back so much."

Miles cycled through many different possible responses, but he at last settled on an end to their conversation. "Good night, Wright." It had been a carefully chosen phrase, especially the name by which he addressed his friend. It implied a certain distance, a distance he needed to try and maintain until he could sort out his own emotions and cope with all that had happened. He hoped Phoenix would understand, and did not doubt that the other man would be heavily involved in his emotional recovery.

He saw a knowing yet somber smile ghost across Phoenix's lips as he looked back over his shoulder. "Night, Edgeworth." And then he was gone, as if vanishing into thin air. Miles distinctly heard the sound of a door shutting somewhere in the house and knew it led to the basement. He was still very uncertain about whether or not any of this was wise, but he knew it was what he wanted, in spite of everything.

With a heavy sigh, Miles collapsed back against his pillows, putting an arm up behind his head and shutting his eyes. It was fortunate that the master bedroom was upstairs, a fair distance away. It had been the cause of his shock at Franziska finding him the previous morning, but it also meant she would not have heard their voices even if she was still awake. She would remain oblivious to Wright's presence, as would everyone else. Miles was aware he would have to keep up pretenses, continuing his search even as he knew exactly what had become of the former defense attorney. People were already going to be suspicious about his secrecy regarding his disappearance; he did not want them wondering why he had suddenly given up the search to which he had committed himself as well. If he was to get away with hiding what had happened to him, he had to make everyone believe nothing had changed.

In truth, he felt as though _everything_ had changed. Nothing about the world itself had, but _his_ world had been shaken to the core, and unless this great revelation came to pass during his lifetime, no one but Phoenix could ever know. The burden was daunting, but he had no choice other than to bear it. Thus, he would do so and never allow the world to see him stumble.

At the very least, he could take solace in knowing he was not entirely alone.


End file.
